Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  Definitely a pea-souper.

  “At any rate, the foreign secretary is an influential and important position in the government,” Mirabella said. “Could these murders have anything to do with the government?”

  Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her, interest suddenly alight in his eyes.

  Ordinarily she hated to see that look in the Great Detective’s eyes.

  “I had thought the murders to be personally motivated, but it is certainly something to consider.” Mycroft turned to glance at Mirabella, pausing from his dining momentarily. “Will the lovely Miss Hudson be assisting you on the case, Shirley?”

  “That would be a welcome development.” She was suddenly hopeful.

  Sherlock glanced her way with obvious disparity. “Unfortunately it may be necessary.”

  “Truly?” exclaimed Mirabella, finding that she was dusting more feverishly. “Will I be allowed to assist? Oh, that is wonderful. I promise, I—”

  “Miss Hudson,” interrupted Sherlock. “There will be some light investigative reporting necessary if and only if you can keep your tongue in your head. Unlike the episode when you gave our position over to the apothecary.”

  Her heart fell at the stinging remark.

  Her feelings must have been evident because Mycroft said softly, “Be kind, Shirley. Miss Hudson does an exceptional job—at great personal danger to herself.”

  She felt her heart sing as quickly as it had fallen.

  How could someone so handsome be so nice? Especially related to Sherlock Holmes?

  “I have no quarrel with her job. It is her mouth which concerns me,” Sherlock said.

  “That is most unfair, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Is it? You were almost knifed to death after your last slip of the tongue.”

  She swallowed hard. It was difficult to argue with that one.

  Sherlock turned in his chair to face her. “Miss Hudson, can you make investigative inquiries without revealing your position to our suspects?”

  “Oh, yes. I will do much better. What do you want me to do? Go undercover in the workhouse?” she asked excitedly.

  “Heaven forbid,” Dr. Watson exclaimed, his concern evident.

  “I second that sentiment,” Sherlock said. “There are things to do of equal importance. Can you put aside your own preferences for once, Miss Hudson, and do what is needed for the good of the case and your employer?”

  “I always do.”

  “It sounds like you are reprimanding Miss Hudson for doing precisely that—wanting to assist on the case,” Mycroft drawled.

  Why did Sherlock do that? Could he not stand to see her succeed? Maybe Moriarty was right about Sherlock.

  His gaze was icy cold. “Going under cover at the workhouse is out of the question.”

  “There, there Miss Hudson,” Mycroft said consolingly. “What my brother means to say is this is a very dangerous matter, as well as exceedingly delicate, and we must proceed accordingly. Are you able to both implement discretion and, shall we say, a certain worldliness?”

  “I’m not certain I follow you . . . how am I to be both worldly and discreet?”

  “Miss Hudson,” exclaimed Sherlock. “If you would but listen to what Mycroft has to say, perhaps you will find out.”

  “But Mycroft asked me a question, Sherlock.” She set down her duster and stood before them. “How can I answer his question and be quiet at the same time?” She was more convinced than ever that Sherlock expected the impossible from her.

  “It is Mycroft’s job to protect the security of the country,” Sherlock explained. “If he has concerns, you cannot intimidate him into ignoring them. You must earn his respect. If you have not done so as yet, that is at your door and not at his.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, half curtseying. I have never thought of myself as either intimidating or disrespectful, but I certainly always think of the Holmes brothers as enigmatic. Never more so than now.

  “It is true,” acknowledged Mycroft. “This is a sensitive issue, which a young girl such as Miss Hudson might find morally objectionable. I must therefore understand if she is able to respect confidentiality under all circumstances.”

  “Indeed I can—and I will.” Mirabella looked up in surprise. “It is my responsibility—my commitment—to let nothing that occurs in these four walls go beyond this room.”

  “And what if the case should involve scandal?” demanded Mycroft.

  “Scandal?” she gulped.

  “What if the case might involve something that does not agree with your personal high morals, Miss Hudson?” asked Mycroft.

  “I don’t agree with murder, and that is what we face every day. Nothing could be worse than that.”

  “If a person, a high ranking person for example, were involved in something offensive to you, Miss Hudson, would you see it as your duty to make it known—or to keep quiet about the matter for the good of the country?” pressed Mycroft, clearly unconvinced. “If that were my determination?”

  “Yes sir,” she replied without hesitation.

  “‘Yes sir’, what?” he persisted.

  “Yes, I would keep quiet,” she insisted.

  “Ha! ha!” chuckled Sherlock. “Oh, I should love to see it. If only for a moment.”

  “I do have one question,” she posed.

  “You see, my wishes were in vain,” murmured Sherlock.

  “Yes, Miss Hudson?” asked Mycroft.

  “Shouldn’t a person who is engaged in something morally objectionable be held accountable?”

  “Oh, my dear girl.” Mycroft laughed, though his eyes never lost their intensity, even when he was amused. “Morally objectionable to whom?”

  “To decent people of course.”

  “Those are the worst type of people.”

  “I thought we were in the process of discovering truth and apprehending criminals.” She was genuinely perplexed. “Or are you saying that doesn’t apply to the rich and powerful? Or to those in high positions?”

  “Truth is, at best, subjective,” Mycroft said.

  Sherlock placed his pipe on the end table beside him a bit too forcefully in her opinion. “Let us cut to the chase. What we are trying to say, Miss Hudson, is that there may be something you will have to conceal from the police. Something illegal,” Sherlock said.

  In all my life, I never expected to hear those words come forth from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. She placed her hand over her mouth. “Conceal something from the police? Why would you wish me to conceal something that is illegal?”

  “Not all things which are illegal are wrong.” Mycroft patted his lips with a handkerchief.

  She heard a bell ringing on a carriage outside, the whinnying of horses, and the newsies selling the paper.

  “Read all about it in the Strand.”

  Why did she suddenly feel that she had entered into a secret world, a world of subterfuge and deception?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Undercover

  “Sherlock had twice now inferred that she was the world’s first female detective, but he very soon relapsed into treating her like the scullery maid.” – “Sherlock Holmes and the Chocolate Menace”

  “But you must let me go undercover in the workhouse, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella pleaded after Mycroft left. It appeared her answers had not convinced him she was ready.

  “It’s far too dangerous.” Sherlock’s raven black curls framed his unshaven face, causing him to look somewhat wilder than usual. His steel-grey eyes were uncompromising. He wore a black brocade vest with silver threads embroidered throughout, and a white cotton shirt with blousy sleeves of the Lord Byron variety on his muscular frame, open at the neckline.

  “Precisely why I can be useful. I’ll be near to the suspect.”

  “Near to a man who is murdering the unsuspecting and draining their blood,” Dr. Watson added solemnly.

  “This is a cold-hearted killer, Miss Hudson. Or did you not comprehend that from the four now dead?”

/>   Overton, Percival, Denzil, and Radcliffe.

  “Perhaps more,” Dr. Watson added. “Not your garden variety murderer, Miss Belle.”

  “This is the most dangerous case we’ve ever had,” Sherlock said solemnly. “A deranged murderer is on the loose.”

  “Strictly speaking, that is why I am needed. I thought the purpose of our work was to stop the villain.” Certainly she was afraid. Of all the monsters they had dealt with, the vampire was by far the most macabre and disturbing. Someone has to do something, and I feel in my very being that I am the one to do it.

  “And how do you propose to do that, Miss Hudson?”

  “I’ll be near to the suspect. I can obtain evidence to support what we already know. And to find out what we don’t.”

  “And what do you know, Miss Hudson?”

  “That Longstaff is the vampire and that Fairclough is the brains behind it all.” She sighed heavily. “And Evie was the cook.”

  “Ah. I see.” Sherlock nodded. “And why are they doing this?”

  “To run experiments on the blood to determine what makes blood compatible. And because they are horrible people.”

  “It’s an odd endeavor for horrible people,” Sherlock considered. “To seek a scientific discovery which will save tens of thousands of lives.”

  “They are abominable. And yet you want to fall in with them, Miss Mirabella,” Dr. Watson considered.

  “I don’t want to, but it is necessary. This is what we do. Has Evie been arrested?” The idea saddened her, but she considered the mounting death toll.

  Sherlock shook his head. “Evie still works for Fairclough at the apothecary. The constable doesn’t wish us to spook either her or Fairclough until they have proof of their involvement which would convict them in court. I did pass on the results of your investigation, Miss Belle, and Jones was quite interested.”

  She smiled, proud that she could assist.

  “It did buy us the constable’s continued good graces, which will come in handy,” Sherlock added.

  “Have you found Longstaff?” Mirabella asked.

  “Gone.” Sherlock took a puff on his pipe. “We asked Evie and Fairclough if they knew of Longstaff’s whereabouts and they claimed to have no knowledge of where he is.”

  Dr. Watson flapped his newspaper. “They are fairly convincing. Evie seemed frightened at best.”

  “She also denied being Mrs. Kitchens,” Sherlock said. “But the fact that Longstaff has gone missing . . .”

  “They’re all going into hiding,” Mirabella said. “The man I overheard wanted out.”

  “Maybe Fairclough gave him a permanent out,” Dr. Watson muttered, scanning the Pall Mall Gazette.

  “Fairclough will need new recruits,” Sherlock murmured to himself.

  “And when he goes to Saint Pancras workhouse looking for fresh faces, you’ll have paid off the overseer, who will present me. Then I can find out what Fairclough is up to—and find proof of his connection to the vampire murders.”

  Dr. Watson looked up. “Listen to yourself, Miss Mirabella: this is work for an experienced agent. It’s far too treacherous.”

  “Nothing we do is without danger.” She placed her hands on her waist. And how am I to gain experience without working on a case? Honestly, it was so strange how Sherlock threw her into every manner of danger on their first two cases, and now he was so protective of her. She didn’t see that much difference between ferocious tigers and a vampire. “Recall that I have now been in three knife fights. And yet here I stand before you.”

  “You have not yet faced a vampire, Miss Hudson. And you will never on my watch,” Sherlock said softly, but with fierce determination. “And let me point out that someone running towards you with a knife does not constitute ‘being in a fight’. Particularly if a third party takes out a gun and shoots your attacker as he is heading towards you.”

  “Alright, so that happened two of the three times. The third time I shot the assailant myself.”

  “And missed.” Sherlock looked down at her condescendingly.

  “I don’t see how that is relevant.” What was needed here was not armchair philosophical arguments but action.

  “Neither do I. But you’re the one who brought it up, Miss Hudson.” Sherlock cleared his throat, picking up Watson’s discarded Pall Mall Gazette and perusing it. It was obvious that he had dismissed her. “What I believe to be relevant is that, aside from the danger, Fairclough knows you. It would be a short time before realization hit. I would as sooner send Watson than you—and I’m certainly not sending Watson.”

  “You know very well that one of your disguises would fool him, Mr. Holmes.”

  “One of mine, yes. Not one of yours.”

  “I have not been your pupil for all this time to have learned nothing.”

  “That is an entirely different topic and equally exhaustive. At least we are both agreed that the workhouse subject is closed.”

  “I will work very hard, Mr. Holmes. I know disguises is an area where I need to learn, but you can teach me.”

  “I can teach you certainly, but it is less apparent if you can learn. At any rate, I forbid it. We are dealing with a deadly criminal, a heinous individual, and you cannot go unguarded into his clutches, Miss Belle. Not without a better and specific plan. It is out of the question. That is final.”

  “At any rate, that is for the police to accomplish; they have experienced agents for this purpose,” Dr. Watson said. “Holmes has passed on the information, and it should not be long before they bring the murderer in.”

  “How many times have I heard that?” She sighed. “And who will protect your brother, Mr. Holmes?”

  In an instant Sherlock assumed a dark countenance, and she stepped back. “You’re venturing into unsafe territory, Miss Hudson.”

  She already knew that from his expression, there was no need to tell her. “But you are worried about your brother, Mr. Holmes, aren’t you?”

  ***

  Truer words were never spoken. Sherlock was exceedingly worried about Mycroft. And Miss Belle’s plan was his best chance at saving his brother. A sound plan, and the only logical course to take.

  A detective knew the risks associated with the job. One must, at all times, pursue the criminal without regard to one’s own safety.

  But that wasn’t what he heard coming out of his mouth. “It is our job to point Constable Jones in the correct direction. It is not our job to bring in the killer.”

  Have I lost my mind? Why do I utter such things when there is a murderer on the loose? Sherlock was not accustomed to there being the slightest difference between his thoughts and his utterings.

  Insincerity and deception are anathema to me. But he couldn’t let Belle know his true thoughts.

  Sherlock looked past the bay window to Baker street, which he could see comfortably from his chair beside the fireplace, opposite Watson.

  He hated to admit it, but Belle’s plan was a solid one: enter the workhouse, gain employment with Fairclough, and obtain the proof the law needed.

  But they were dealing with a nightmarish monster. A beast. Someone who would not hesitate to inflict a violent death on another. It was imperative that they succeed in locking the demon up when they acted. It wasn’t enough to be certain of the identity.

  Sherlock knew who they were dealing with, but not what they were dealing with. The behavior was utterly unpredictable.

  They faced a new horror around every corner.

  Looking up to see Belle’s chestnut brown hair carelessly thrown atop her head, somehow all the more appealing in its disorder and disarray, her glistening golden brown eyes alight with the idea of running headfirst into danger.

  In his mind’s eye he saw that peach-toned ivory skin suddenly turn grey in pallor surrounded in a pool of blood.

  He shuddered, in the worst turmoil of his life, torn between protecting his brother and his precious Miss Belle.

  Did I say precious?

  Sherlock wa
s never without the ability to act decisively. It was his trademark.

  I must resolve this case. And quickly. He was conflicted. Cases never upset him; he merely solved them.

  It made him wish for cocaine. Watson had been admonishing him that he needed to get off the drug altogether. Sherlock’s thoughts went to cocaine when he experienced unwelcome emotions—which was to say, all emotions.

  “Do you think he is up to it, Holmes?” Watson asked.

  “Up to what?” Sherlock asked distractedly.

  “Can Athelney solve the case?”

  “We will have to see.” No, of course he cannot.

  “Athelney can’t very well arrest Fairclough without proof,” Watson said.

  “No, no of course not.” Sherlock rose from his chair. “That settles it then.”

  I shall be going undercover myself. Perhaps Fairclough needs a new vampire murderer. It quite sounded like his former vampire was losing his nerve.

  Playing the part of a wounded man bent on revenge will not be so difficult a part to play. Sherlock smiled with a disturbed anticipation.

  Miss Belle had been right all along: she had come up with an excellent plan. But it was for him to execute and not for her. Images of the four bodies he had seen over the last few days filled the space before his eyes. It infuriated him when he did not bring a murderer to justice quickly. Reliving that first moment when he saw Mycroft still alive, his hands began to shake.

  Bloody Hell. Sherlock cursed under his breath. Fear was an unusual emotion for him; he was prepared to die in the pursuit of justice.

  “Mr. Holmes?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you want me to do, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

  I want you to stay in this flat and remain safe. He knew very well that underneath that sweet exterior was a determined and intelligent young woman—a quick learner, willing to take on any challenge. Perhaps too willing.

  “You are on the case, Miss Belle, and there is essential work to be done.” He turned to face her, rising from his chair. “To begin with, take the drawing you made of the footprint outside of The Madame’s Apothecary to James Taylor & Company and determine if Mr. Taylor made that shoe. It’s unlikely, but he may have some idea who made it . . .” He added in an almost inaudible tone, “that was excellent work by the by.”