“The Chester has a pretty good lead,” Watson said. “If this tub can’t go any faster, it’s going to take the entire eight miles to the ocean to catch her.”
“She’s a good little boat, and that’s a fact. She ain’t meant to be a racer,” Valentine said indignantly. “That’s a new ship there, lads. I knows for a fact that she can go quite a clip. I’d be frankly amazed if’n we caught her, even in crowded waters such as this.”
“We damn well have to try,” Sherlock’s eyes were fixated on the Chester, already a good mile ahead of them. He dared not loose sight of it with all the other boats on the Mersey.
Sherlock heard the cry of a seagull in the background. If one could steer clear of cholera and crime, the Liverpool dock was a fine place to be with its sailing ships, steamships, clippers, and escaping criminals.
The next hour was spent dodging all manner of craft pushing to keep pace. While Watson manned the tiller, Quinlan was now in the process of using the flags in an attempt to get the Chester’s attention. With no success.
“Watson, let me take the tiller. Fire off a few rounds from your Webley. We’ve got to do something to stand out from the crowd. Once we reach the ocean, it’s too late.”
“Like a ladybug tryin’ to get the attention of a elephant,” Valentine grumbled, but he never stopped working, shoveling more coal while the other three tried everything they could think of to get the ship’s attention.
As luck would have it, most of the crew was at the bow of the Chester, eyes forward, with the stern being overlooked. As for the passengers, the black smoke coming out the rear neither increased visibility nor made it the most pleasant place to be, moving the people forward as well.
“Look, Holmes!” Watson cried out, grinning with exuberance. “Second tier railing. There’s someone watching us. Can you convince him to alert the crew?”
Sherlock grabbed the seaman’s binoculars, and saw the man pointing and waving as a few people approached.
“It won’t be long now,” Watson said. “He’s making quite a scene.”
“Indeed he is,” Sherlock murmured.
“What’s he doing, Holmes? Why isn’t the Chester slowing down?” Watson turned to Quinlan, still waving like a madman. “Can’t you convince that fellow on the second level to alert the crew?”
“Keep at it!” Quinlan stopped for a moment, handing the flags to Valentine and grabbing the binoculars. “Bloody hell! He’s pointing everywhere but here.”
“Yes. He’s diverting all the attention to the other ships.” Sherlock was dripping wet with ocean spray, and his mood matched.
“Why the hell—” Quinlan exclaimed.
“That’s Longstaff.”
“The black smoke ain’t helpin’ either,” Valentine muttered.
“Overload the coal box if you have to, man! They’re crossing the breakwaters into the ocean,” Sherlock yelled.
“The seas are too rough, laddie.” Valentine said, shaking his head. “We go out there and we’re takin’ our lives into our hands.”
Sherlock felt his blood might boil over. He couldn’t tolerate giving up until there was no hope for success or death was knocking on his door.
In many cases, not even then.
A heavy wave hit the boat hard, almost turning it sideways. It was a mixture of luck and seamanship that allowed Valentine to both drop the flags and grab the detective before he was flung over the side.
“I thank you, my good man,” Sherlock murmured. His pride had drowned along with his spirits.
“It’s no use,” Valentine yelled. “We’ll broach if we don’t turn back.”
Watson, who had assumed control of the tiller again, turned the launch back toward the River Mersey without further comment.
The Chester sailed serenely out to sea.
***
Sergeant Quinlan narrowed his eyes. At the very least this adventure had caused him to recognize the Great Detective as one of his own, a man with stamina and fight.
“Never you worry, Mr. Holmes. We’ll get Longstaff on the other side. I’ll wire ahead and there will be men waiting for him at New York City.”
“It’s fortunate the ship is headed to New York instead of to Argentina,” Dr. Watson said to a somewhat soggy detective and their attending officer, all three returning to the relative shelter of the stern.
“Yes, the New York constabulary is an advanced police force and favorable to us. They’ll return him,” Sergeant Quinlan agreed.
“Only because they don’t want Nathan Longstaff in New York,” Sherlock muttered. There was nothing he hated more than not apprehending a criminal.
Particularly one who had targeted his brother. “Vampire, henchman, and butler all wrapped into one disturbing package.”
“Vampire?” The sergeant looked aghast.
“Longstaff is wanted as an accomplice in the murder of at least three persons,” Sherlock explained. “Gruesome murders.”
“The Chester will accommodate some fifteen hundred passengers, fully thirteen hundred in steerage and only one hundred and twenty five in first class,” Quinlan considered. “A good place to hide.”
Watson broke in, as much to distract his friend as for the need for information. “Which class do you think Longstaff is in, Holmes?”
“None. Except for that little display we just witnessed, I expect him to be in hiding, only coming out at night. Longstaff is a vampire, after all.”
Sherlock pulled a piece of folded paper out of his pocket, a detailed drawing of the RMS City of Chester, now soggy. He pointed to the map. “I expect he’s hiding here.”
“And what better place than on a ship he helped to build?” Watson posed.
“Longstaff knows all the nooks and crannies on the Chester.” Sherlock smiled, water still dripping down his face. “Fortunately, so do I.”
Their errand had taken a few more days than anticipated. They had first gone to the Caird & Company Ship Building Enterprises in Greenock, Scotland, a former place of employment for Longstaff, after locating the butler’s family home. With Longstaff nowhere to be found, the obvious conclusion was that he had fled the British isles for a location where he might be invisible. Unfortunately for him and fortunately for justice, once again Nathan’s longing for the easy path and a more desirable location had led him astray. Australia or Argentina would have been a far better choice.
Finally, luck is on our side.
Frustrated and not feeling so lucky, Sherlock shook his head. He had not been on that many cases as yet, and could not accustom himself to the inefficiencies inherent in the work. “We’ve met failure at every turn. My only consolation is that, if the New York police don’t find him, Longstaff will stay hidden on the boat and return to England—where I’ll be waiting for him.”
“Oh, we won’t fail, sir, I guarantee it,” Sergeant Quinlan said. “And you’ve showed us precisely where to look.”
“Longstaff doesn’t appear to be that hidden at the moment,” Watson said. “Standing about on the deck waving his arms.”
“As yet no one is looking for Longstaff or knows they are harboring a fugitive from the law. He’ll go into hiding when the time comes.”
“I have to agree with the sergeant, Holmes. We made enough progress that we scared Longstaff out of London.” Watson pulled on the vest of his three-piece wool suit, looking quite out of place in the chugging tugboat, and remarkably dry. “And Miss Mirabella has no doubt advanced the case as well.”
“Let us hope that Miss Hudson has managed to stay out of trouble while making said progress.”
What am I thinking? It’s Mirabella Hudson we’re talking about.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Devil's Due
“She’ll do fine,” Fairclough said. “Please return her things to her. I’ll be waiting outside with the carriage.”
Fairclough had chosen her and Moriarty was waiting in the wings.
“And the promised information?” he asked without further ado. “
I have come to collect my debt.”
“My goodness, couldn’t this have waited?” Mirabella whispered, startled.
“You might not be around to tell me.”
She shivered.
He frowned, his impatience showing. “Tell me, Miss Hudson, how shall I cut steel with light?”
Mirrors. Mirrors may multiply the effect of the light. The words circled round in her brain. No! Don’t say it! Giving Moriarty information was akin to the murder of people in the future.
“I’m waiting, Miss Hudson. Let me remind you that I can still undo this.”
I’m so close to infiltrating this ring. Fairclough is waiting outside for me.
Someone will develop the weapon in time, it is just a matter of who and when. That was an insupportable justification to assist evil, and she knew it. “I will give you the idea, and that is where it stops. I will not assist you in hurting anyone.”
“As you say.”
Her eyes were glued to his insincere expression. He might as well have said ‘so you say’.
Mirabella knew this was a mistake. But she had to find out who was behind the vampire murders—and obtain proof. She had good faith in Sherlock’s judgment, but she also had the conviction that this vampire must be stopped. They had come up against a brick wall.
Against every instinct, the words flowed from her mouth. “It seems to me we are talking about two things: stimulating electrons which, in turn emit photons, and something to stimulate the electrons.”
“To be sure.”
The dye is cast. “The atoms can be solid, liquid, or gas.” It is the gas which could cut through metal.
“Of course.”
“I suggest that you look at the solid state,” she added.
“Hmm . . . I would have thought gas, but this is ingenious. How to stimulate the electrons?”
“A crystalline gem for example. Possibly a ruby.”
“A ruby?” A slow smile formed on his lips.
“The gem would have to be enclosed and something would have to provide spurts of energy.”
He was deep in thought when suddenly his eyes lit up. A slow smile formed on his lips. “Yes. Yes, I see.”
There. She had done it. She had set him on a path which would appear to be successful, taking up many years of his time, but would eventually prove to be inefficient—and expensive.
“St. Pancras it is, then, Miss Hudson. Good work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mirrors. Mirrors may multiply the effect of the light.
***
I hate to see her die. Moriarty sighed as she walked out the door—presumably for the last time. Strange, it was a rare occasion when someone’s death bothered him.
He had the information he needed now, so it was no matter. Still, Mirabella Hudson was a great help: inspiring, insightful, and a force for change.
There were more inventions today than in all prior historical periods combined; she was a perfect person for her time—and for his.
How can I allow her to go, knowing how much danger she is in? The thought whirled round in his head, which he resented. It took his mind off more important matters. The weapon.
The only time Moriarty allowed his emotions full reign was when he had been betrayed. Then he unleashed them and took his revenge.
One of life’s greatest satisfactions.
He had originally intended to kill Mirabella Hudson as retaliation against Holmes. But that could be re-visited at anytime. He had then discovered her to be useful.
Despite abhorring attachments of any kind, he felt a sadness he hated to admit to as the door shut closed.
Moriarty couldn’t blame Holmes for taking a fancy to her, though he naturally did not stoop to such emotions. Completely without benefit or use.
I am superior to Sherlock Holmes.
And yet—the professor could not deny the evidence: he had grown rather fond of the girl. No doubt because he had seen she her inventor’s mind, something of which he wasn’t certain Holmes was aware.
The detective had been blinded by his feelings. True, Holmes knew she was bright, but he didn’t know where the girl’s true talents lay. As she didn’t.
She wasn’t a great detective as Holmes was. She wasn’t a doctor. She wasn’t a pharmacist, a chemist, or a biologist. She wasn’t even a researcher in the purest sense. Though she could be useful in all of those areas.
Mirabella Hudson is an inventor. A creator.
Just as he was a destroyer. That could potentially put them at odds.
But not now. Now they fed off each other.
It was no matter now. Mirabella Hudson wouldn’t be around to realize what she could do.
But I will. Moriarty saw his chalkboard in his mind’s eye, his work.
He frowned. His need to have Holmes in this world had become a thorn in his side as well.
Nothing should get in the way of my work.
His mind returned to the more pleasant Miss Hudson. He was indeed sorry to see her go.
I might be a destroyer, but I am also the fulfiller of dreams. He allowed the realization of a person’s true nature.
“Ah, but the young will do what they will do.” He had only facilitated what she had planned to do anyway. As he always did for everyone. It would have been better that she skip the workhouse altogether: it was not the place for a young girl—for anyone. But she would not be deterred.
He envisioned his thermopile.
And neither will I.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Walking Into A Trap
“I place women on a pedestal: pure, chaste, innocent, refined, helpless. And generally naïve and requiring our assistance.” –“Sherlock Holmes and the Chocolate Menace”
“Damnation!” Sherlock read Mirabella’s brief note upon their delayed return to Baker Street.
The thought of Belle in danger made his blood boil like nothing else could. “That girl has disobeyed me, as she always does. She has no respect for anything except her own intractable will.”
“Are you speaking of Miss Mirabella?” Dr. Watson looked up from the Illustrated London News with an expression which said his suite-mate was over-reacting.
Impossible. I never exaggerate.
“So you immediately knew of whom I was speaking, Watson. Proof that my description was accurate.”
“What has Miss Mirabella done to disobey you, Holmes?”
“For one thing, she is gone, and has omitted her whereabouts in the note.” Sherlock handed the note to Watson.
“To the contrary,” Watson said, reading Miss Belle’s missive. “She says she is working on the case and will contact us when she has something.”
“Omitting one’s whereabouts is not the same thing as communicating one’s direction, Watson.”
“True.” Watson’s expression was perplexed.
“She has lied to buy herself time.”
“Presumably to work on the case, precisely as she says.”
Sherlock frowned. “As incorrigible as she is, this has to do with Miss Belle’s safety.”
“You were never so protective of Miss Mirabella before. She is invested in your interests, after all, as we all are. You’ve gotten strange about her, Holmes.” Watson shook his head, letting his newspaper drop. “Are you in love with the girl?”
“In love?” Sherlock rose from his chair. “I am not and have never been in love with anyone.”
“I agree that you have never been before—although I shudder recalling when you and Fantine were an item, God forbid.”
“Ah, I do miss Fantine at times.”
“Yes, the countess might have been your dream girl, Holmes, except for a few minor personality quirks.”
“Quite inconsequential, really,” Sherlock agreed.
“Decidedly. If only Fantine weren’t utterly self-centered, incapable of loving anyone else, and without the slightest degree of morality.”
“And yet so nearly perfect.” Sherlock sighed. “Most unfortuna
te.”
“Did I mention her vicious streak?”
“I tend to be attracted to women who are, shall we say, unladylike.”
“Fantine is a man-eater not a tomboy. Stabbing you in the back if there is something in it for her is a bit more than being a hoyden.”
“Oh, I don’t believe she shows any favoritism to one gender over the other. At any rate, I can’t imagine why you ever thought I have the slightest romantic feeling for Miss Belle. She is much too conservative in her values—in her goodness.”
“I would not consider that to be a fault. As to her conservatism, you might be surprised, Holmes.”
Sherlock shot out of his chair. “I hope you are not speaking from first-hand knowledge, Watson.”
“Certainly not. I simply cannot think of one single thing to Fantine’s credit or one quality which she has over Miss Mirabella.”
“A woman who is entirely good—as is Miss Belle—adheres to a code learned from society, lacking a certain spontaneity. My match—if I had one, which I don’t, and which I don’t wish—would have to be someone who feels no confines, no barriers, and no need to be anyone except who she is.”
“I would say that is an excellent description of Miss Mirabella Hudson. You do her no credit, Holmes, if you believe that her goodness precludes her ability to grow as a person and to expand her horizons.”
“Expanding her horizons is precisely what I fear, Watson.” Sherlock lunged for his hat. “We must go.”
“She is in grave danger. As well as jeopardizing the case.” Sherlock reached for his cane.
“Most unforgivable.”
“Precisely. This causes me to delay my own plans of infiltration in order to find the little miscreant first.”
Watson put his pistol in his jacket. “Where do we start?”
“As I suspected, the red thread which Belle found was from the gaiters of the Royal Scots, our trip to the Scottish highlands has confirmed this. If I’m not mistaken Fairclough served in that regiment.”
“Finally we have some evidence the Yard can use.” Watson paused to reflect. “So the thread wasn’t from Longstaff’s spats?”
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