“Excuse me?” She appeared surprised. It wasn’t as if he was an ogre. He was merely concerned for her safety, and he received little help from her on that score. The girl was a walking bullseye. She went out of her way to throw herself into harm’s way.
“Miss Hudson, let me repeat, can you keep your tongue in your head?”
“Of course,” she replied indignantly, placing her hand on her hip, accentuating her curves. Most becoming, at the same time she managed to look prim and proper in a tasteful silk beige day suit. Not many women could look smashing in beige or brown, but Miss Belle certainly did. To be sure, Sherlock liked her in every color—except, perhaps white. Not because it didn’t become her but because she was accident prone.
He felt a pang in his heart at the thought.
“Have a care, Miss Hudson. No one must know, not your Aunt, no one. Most especially not the murderer. Let us try that tactic for a change.”
“I will certainly do my best.”
“That is what concerns me, Miss Hudson.”
“I assure you that I don’t wish to be murdered.”
He frowned. “Murder is not a joking matter, Miss Hudson.”
She swung around to stare at him. “I am not joking, sir. I remember when my safety was not so high a priority for you, Mr. Holmes.”
“What the devil do you mean, Miss Belle?” Sherlock demanded, crossing the floor in a matter of seconds and taking her by the shoulders. “Never say that to me again.”
She swallowed hard. “I’ve done what was required of me for my country, risking my life. And now you wish to treat me as if I am untried and a mere spectator?”
“No one would ever accuse you of being a spectator, Miss Belle, who would necessarily be silent.” He dropped his arms as realization hit him. “What a bloody fool I’ve been!”
“What is it Mr. Holmes?”
“I assumed the rope burns on Longstaff’s hands were from picking Oakum in the workhouse. There wasn’t time for his hands to be burned to that degree.”
“What was it then, Holmes?”
“The shipyards. Longstaff used to work in the shipyards.” He punched the air. “By Jove! The red thread. Those spats belonged to someone else!”
Sherlock ran into his room and retrieved his overnight bag. The workhouse will have to wait a few days.
“Holmes, where are you going?” Watson asked. The good doctor always knew when he had hit upon a plan.
“I’ll be gone a few days.”
“And shall I accompany you?”
“Your company would be much appreciated, Watson. You must pack immediately. I’ll be gone for a few hours on errands and then will return for you.”
Watson jumped from his chair and moved to his room on the third floor. He always kept a bag packed as well, so it wouldn’t be long.
“Shall I go, too?” Belle asked hopefully.
“No, Miss Hudson. You have a necessary errand to do here, as I have already explained.”
He turned to look at Belle, the light streaming through the window onto her golden brown hair. “Never fear, Miss Belle. The sharp blade of the righteous shall soon be turned upon itself.”
She dropped her duster onto the floor, her eyes opening wide. “What do you mean, Mr. Holmes? That sounds horrible.”
“Believe me, it will be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In Pursuit of a Dream
“The greatest good you can do for another is not just to share your riches but to reveal to him his own.”- Benjamin Disraeli
“What do you think, Prinnie? Is it to be London University or Bedford College?” Mirabella spread the papers out on the dining table, where she often did her work seated in a small wooden chair. Sherlock maintained his messy desk in the chemistry lab next to the stairwell, while Dr. Watson’s desk was on the opposite wall next to the bow window overlooking Baker Street. Neither gentleman was home at the moment, which suited her purposes.
“Snort! Blubble! Blubble!” Prinnie, lounging by the fire, had strong opinions on the subject of academics, as evidenced by the fact that he had allowed those opinions to interrupt his luxuriating, of supreme importance to the hound. The stout and lazy bulldog, so like his royal namesake the prince regent in both appearance and temperament, looked up from his nap just long enough to comment.
Looking at Prinnie’s sweet, layered face, it was difficult to believe that an eighty pound dog would have the ability, audacity, and courage to toss a one-ton bull by corkscrewing its body around the bull’s neck, throwing the bull off balance.
It had only been some fifty years since the baiting of bulls had been made illegal. The dog used both the bull’s weight and his center of gravity against the larger animal. Naturally, the bulldog had best be prepared to run after doing so, despite having been bred for aggression.
Sometimes one must put survival ahead of predisposition.
“I agree, Prinnie. Excellent choice. London University it is.” She made it a policy never to disagree with Prinnie, in spite of her inherent love of the animal. A subject of Her Majesty’s England knew the significance of breeding.
Mirabella picked up her pen and diligently set to filling out the application laid out before her. “I can’t abide the segregation of the sexes anyway.”
Bedford College was an excellent institution—providing classes in science as well as in the arts—but it was nonetheless a college exclusively for women. This did not diminish Bedford’s credentials in her mind, but she wished to dispel the notion that women needed a different curriculum than men did, that they weren’t up to the task. Mirabella might only be nineteen years of age, but she was definitely a woman up to the task.
The door to the flat suddenly opened, and Mirabella inadvertently covered the paperwork with her hands. Sherlock would not understand.
Actually, he did understand, and therein lay the problem. Her entry into college, taking away from her duties, was the last thing Sherlock wanted. He had made that quite clear.
“And when will you do my laboratory work? How will you be available to go undercover if you are in classes?” Sherlock had demanded of her.
And now he was refusing to let her go undercover. What was the point of destroying her dreams if she had nothing of interest to do and was going to be excluded from the spy work?
“Your work has never suffered, Mr. Holmes,” she had retorted. “It has always taken precedence over my dreams. And it always will. I will be attending night classes, and a light load, to insure you should never want for anything, nor have to fetch your own tea or slippers.”
“Do not make light of my work, Miss Hudson. Lives, as well as the safety of London, depend upon us.” His exaggerated response did not fit the situation.
She hunched over her paperwork. She truly did not understand why people—even women—had an aversion to the improvement of a woman’s mind. What was there to be offended by in an intelligent, successful woman? One would admire a man with those same qualities.
It had not been that long ago that Francis Power Cobbe had been the butt of jokes and universal ridicule after merely reading a paper entitled “Universal Degrees for Women” to the Social Science Association in London, as if the mere idea was absurd.
“Good morning, Miss Mirabella.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. It was John. He had a habit of sneaking up on her lately.
“And how proceeds the fate of the world today?” Dr. Watson smiled. He brushed his blond-streaked hair out of his sea-green eyes, not the least of his chimerical qualities.
He glanced at the paperwork on the table. “Applying for college are you, Miss Mirabella? Does Holmes know?”
“What do you think, Dr. Watson?” She raised her eyebrows at him.
“I should think he does.” His lips formed a half smile. “And that you haven’t told him.”
“You won’t betray me, will you?”
“Since when does Holmes need to be told anything?” John chuckled, moving to the gasogene,
where Mirabella had already placed the ginger, sugar, and water in the lower compartment. He placed a cup beneath the spout, adding tartaric acid and sodium bicarbonate to the upper compartment. The experiment begun, and the carbon dioxide forming produced a gas to push the liquid in the lower compartment through the spout in the form of a carbonated ginger beverage, which he eagerly brought to his lips. “Ah, refreshing.”
She sighed heavily. “I certainly hope I can keep this from him.”
“An ambitious endeavor, Miss Mirabella. Best of luck.” He moved to his seat with the ginger beer, glancing over her shoulder as he walked. “I see you have selected my alma mater for your intended education. An excellent choice.”
“The University of London is the only college in England bestowing degrees upon both men and women.” She sighed. “The first only two years ago.”
He smiled at her. “The Bachelor of Arts might be more attainable. It is a Bachelor of Science degree you wish for if I’m not mistaken.”
“You are correct, Doctor.” Mirabella was determined to pursue mathematics, as well as chemistry and biology. “No doubt my strongest interest will emerge once I have the benefit of a formal education.”
“I shouldn’t say that your education has been so shabby, Miss Mirabella. Many a young man would envy it.”
“Thus far, all of my learning has come from my father educating me at home in Dumfriesshire alongside my brothers—as well as a regimen of private reading, of course.”
“How odd that you should forget your education from the world’s finest private detective—as well as from myself.”
“How could I forget? But I wish for the credentials as well, so there can be no question of my education’s equivalence.” Cambridge had already opened mathematics classes and examinations to women—but no degrees, even if they were earned. Mirabella had certainly availed herself of these night classes, but it was time to earn the accreditation as well.
“It is the knowledge that matters if that is what you seek.”
“Could you hang your sign and open your door to patients without your license from the Royal College of Physicians?” she asked.
“Forgive my intrusion, Miss Mirabella, but I wonder that you should want more.”
“I never thought to hear such words from you, Dr. Watson.”
“You must agree, Miss Mirabella, that you are pursuing credentials when you are already receiving the knowledge.”
“I am learning a great deal, true.”
“Do not seek the approval of men. It is unlikely to be forthcoming.” He took a sip of the ginger beer. “Pursue the knowledge and take your pleasure in that. No one can take it from you.”
Mirabella glanced at a letter from her curate father on the table, feeling a sadness as she did so. Even her own father had begged her to be happy with her station in life and to pursue marriage and children, saying it was the natural order of things. He who had always encouraged her education.
Not so those clergy who condemned higher education for women as both un-Christian and ‘dangerous’, saying that female education posed a threat to the family, and hence to the very structure of society, by tempting women away from their natural and proper role. That of wife and mother.
Henry Hudson, a country curate, did not hold to the disturbing view that marriage would help ‘tame’ women; he liked to see his girls as independent thinkers and able to converse on any subject, and he had surely gotten what he wished for in his eldest daughter. Even so, Hudson felt that the purpose of educating women was that they might be superior mothers to their children, not that they would seek accolades and honors for themselves. What was to be admired in men was vain and selfish in women.
“I see,” she said. But she didn’t see. As long as she could remember she had wanted a formal education. An accredited education. “Honestly, if education is desirable for men, why isn’t it desirable for women?”
“Indeed it is.”
“Why did you say then that I should not wish for more, Dr. Watson?” she inquired.
“Not because I would wish you to limit your aspirations, Miss Mirabella. But because you already have everything you want.”
“And what is it that I want?” she asked tersely.
“Education. Training. Knowledge.” He shook his head. “It is a characteristic of the young not to know what they have. And, believe me, you have it all. The admiration of society will give you no pleasure. Do not lose what you have in seeking that which you cannot attain.”
She glanced at Dr. Watson. A kinder man did not exist. And certainly he was progressive. He might be a flirt, he might enjoy the company of women, but he never wished to exert any power over women.
Except charm.
His turquoise eyes lit up in a way that had made many a woman swoon.
She lit the wood stove for tea and returned to the room. It would be some twenty minutes before tea was ready. She had an apple pie which she would re-heat as well.
Ding Dong! She heard the Westminster clock strike three o’clock. “Oh my goodness! I must make haste to the shoe shop.”
She grabbed her application papers and hid them behind some of the laboratory books. She held her index finger to her lips in a sign of silence, receiving a smile from John in return. She then folded a piece of paper and placed it in her purse, checking to insure that she had cab fare.
“I almost forgot. The tea will be ready in twenty minutes. Can you please serve yourself? I mustn’t miss the cobbler.”
“Of course. I might have injured my leg in the war, but it still functions.”
“Also take the pie out of the oven. Have a piece if you’d like.”
“I certainly would like.”
“I’ll be back to make dinner.”
“There is no need, Miss Mirabella. Holmes and I will have no doubt departed by then. We’ll be out of town overnight.”
She turned on her heel to face him. “I almost forgot. Where are you going?”
“Holmes didn’t tell me.”
“My goodness he has become secretive.”
John laughed. “I don’t believe this is a new development. I suspect he has always been so.”
She bit her lip. Two can play at that game.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
James Taylor & Company
“Nurture your minds with great thoughts. To believe in the heroic makes heroes.” - Benjamin Disraeli
Having arrived at James Taylor & Company, Mr. Taylor studied Mirabella’s drawing of the shoe. Sherlock’s cobbler shook his head disdainfully, his expression bearing a strange resemblance to the Great Detective’s usual countenance.
Each was an artist in his chosen profession, and artists were known to be temperamental.
She didn’t know how to interpret Mr. Taylor’s disapproval. Her drawing was not good enough? He could make no deductions? He knew whose shoe this was, which disturbed him?
Please let it be the latter.
“I measured the footprint very carefully,” she offered hesitantly. “I believe it is an accurate reproduction precisely to the size.”
“No doubt it is,” he murmured, his eyes fixated to the drawing.
“Is it one of your shoes?” she pressed.
Mr. Taylor looked up suddenly, obviously indignant. “Most certainly not.”
“Oh, excuse m-me . . . I knew it was unlikely . . .” She apologized though she had no idea what she was apologizing for or why he would be offended by the question.
“Not unlikely. Impossible.”
“Forgive me. You are a cobbler after all. This is a shoe.” She attempted not to give further offense.
Her words had the opposite effect.
“My shoes support the skeleton, the legs, the entire body. There is no other article of clothing which is so essential to overall well-being.”
“Actually, in the cold a coat or scarf might very well prevent one from catching pneumonia.”
He glared at her.
She swallowed hard.
“To be sure, shoes are the most important.”
“I am a master at my profession, I care about my work, Miss Hudson.”
“I’m quite sure you do, or you would not be the shoemaker to Sherlock Holmes.”
“Quite so.” He tapped the drawing with his pencil.
She cleared her throat. “And how do you know this is not your shoe, Mr. Taylor?” This investigative work was more difficult than one might think. There was so much of human pride and individual character involved.
“The shoe nails are too far apart. Very shoddy work. I wouldn’t let such a shoe as this leave my shop.”
“Quite Interesting.” This was not what she expected to hear. Sherlock was right on this as he was on many things: it did pay to consult with the experts. “So the nails are far apart in order to save money with materials?”
“And time. That is the more relevant consideration.”
“Time is money,” she feigned agreement in an effort to build camaraderie.
Mr. Taylor raised his chin. “A true artisan does not resent the time it takes to attain perfection. There is joy in the process—and in the finished result.”
It was apparent that her efforts had failed.
“So these must be inexpensive shoes?”
“My dear girl.” He laughed. “Not necessarily.”
My goodness, she was zero for two. “I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor, I don’t comprehend your meaning.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Simply because they were cheaply made does not mean they were inexpensive. Many a ladies’ fashionable shoe is made quickly by someone who has a following, shall we say.” He frowned. “A fashion shoe is not made to last, as a working man’s shoes must be.”
“Hmm,” she considered. “I see what you mean, sir. I realize it is asking a great deal, but can you tell from the drawing which it is?”
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 22
