“We’ve got to go, Watson! Before it’s too late.” Sherlock Sherlock reached for the doorknob. “Make haste!”
***
“Where is she?” Sherlock demanded, grabbing Moriarty by the neck, the professor’s bowtie flying across the room.
Moriarty sputtered between gasping and speaking. “Have a care, Mr. Holmes. If something happens to me, you’ll be the first to die.”
“Let him go, Holmes!” Watson commanded. “If we harm Moriarty, he won’t be able to help us.”
“Ah, that is the relevant point.” Sherlock lowered Moriarty to the wooden floor but remained in his face. “Where is she? Damn your henchman!”
“Can’t you keep up with your own employees, Holmes?” Moriarty narrowed his eyes.
Sherlock determined to play the game if it gave Moriarty some pleasure. In the end the professor would speak. “Apparently not.”
In truth, it gave Sherlock no end of irritation that Miss Belle told Moriarty where she was going while failing to tell him. To find that she trusted his arch enemy, and the mastermind behind the London criminal underground, more than him was a distinct slap in the face.
And make no mistake, Moriarty knows where she is.
“Use those famous deductive powers of yours and take a stab at it.”
“I already have, but I want to hear it from your lips, Moriarty.”
“Time is of the essence!” Watson exclaimed.
“Ah, yes,” Moriarty said. “Would that were all. Miss Hudson came to me because I could provide something which Holmes could not. Let’s face it, my dear Dr. Watson, if Holmes were able to solve this murder, he would have already done so.”
Sherlock bit his lip, refusing to rise to the bait. He was not accustomed to monitoring his responses, but there was too much at stake here. “True. Miss Belle desired a connection to the underground criminal world—and, being a clever girl, she knew where to look.”
The professor puffed out his chest. “I commend you thus far.”
“She sought out a criminal. That is nothing to feign superiority over.” Dr. Watson objected.
“Never mind, Watson. Let Moriarty have his moment.” Sherlock shook his head in disapproval. And I shall have mine.
The professor nodded noncommittally. “I don’t know why you brought along your sidekick, Holmes. We work very well together you and I.” He appeared smug. “As do Miss Hudson and myself.”
Sherlock felt his jaw clenching, but he continued. “Indeed. Miss Hudson needed some insider knowledge on who might be gaining labor from the workhouse. She was able to disguise herself, making herself a desirable candidate, but, in order to do so, she needed to know what the villain was looking for.”
“That’s where you come in, Moriarty,” Dr. Watson muttered. “You likely paid off the prison guard to present her.”
“Correct. Once she can finger our culprit, she plans to return to me,” Sherlock said. “This is where her plan fails, revealing her own naivety and inexperience.”
“Indeed, it is a risk,” Moriarty agreed, shrugging, as if accepting the inevitable.
“Damnit!” Dr. Watson exclaimed. “How could you let her go, knowing this?”
“The young will do what they will do. I don’t see how you can blame your employee’s insubordination on me.”
“You’re a devil, Moriarty,” Watson moved towards him.
“Never mind that,” Sherlock held up his hand. “She is in search of a vampire, a man who utilizes slave trafficking in order to do his bidding. Where will he find human slaves? Again, the answer is simple: in the workhouses.”
“If you know so much, Holmes, I fail to see why you need me.” The professor smirked.
“I could eventually come to the solution through my own means, but even twenty-four hours may be too long. There is no time to waste,” Sherlock moved closer. “Tell me which workhouse, Moriarty.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Moriarty, tell us where she is,” Dr. Watson blared out. “Miss Mirabella’s life is in your hands. Of what possible benefit could the death of that lovely girl be to you?”
“Miss Hudson’s death is the last thing I desire. She is quite useful.” There was a long silence in the room. Moriarty turned to Dr. Watson. “As for your associate, that would be no great loss.”
Sherlock lowered his voice, which was deadly calm. “Where is she, Professor?”
“My dear Sherlock, all you had to do was ask. It pains me that you are forced to come crawling to me for the whereabouts of your own employee.”
“And the answer?” Sherlock demanded.
“And what shall you do for me if I tell you?”
“I shall allow you to keep living, you blackguard.” Sherlock moved forward.
“Tsk! tsk! That is very rude indeed.”
“Rude or not, I guarantee if one hair on that girl’s head is harmed, I shall hold you personally responsible.” He added quietly. “I’ll come for you.”
Moriarty stared at him for a long moment. “I believe you mean it, Holmes.”
“With every fiber of my being.”
“We should go down together, you know.”
“Very likely.”
Moriarty sighed heavily. “I don’t believe the time is right for our final showdown. Have you tried the Saint Pancras Workhouse?”
Sherlock sighed heavily, relieved. He didn’t think Moriarty was lying to him. It would soon become apparent, after all. “And who is behind the hiring? Are you associated with him?”
Moriarty appeared indignant. “I’m not behind everything. This is penny ante stuff.” His eyes narrowed, fixating on Sherlock. “Of course, to get rid of a thorn in my side is reason enough.”
“And the name?”
“I’ve told you enough, Holmes. I don’t want to ruin my reputation. I’ll leave you to do some of the work. Good day.”
Sherlock and Watson turned and headed for the door without further hesitation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Time is of the Essence
“There are moments when one has to choose between living one's own life, fully, entirely, completely—or dragging out some false, shallow, degrading existence that the world in its hypocrisy demands." – Oscar Wilde, “Lady Windermere’s Fan”
“For God’s sake, man! Where is she?” Sherlock demanded of the Saint Pancras Workhouse overseer.
“Where is who?” Woodhead replied smugly, his lips forming into the self-serving smile of one who enjoyed having power over others.
He might soon realize his error.
“We told you quite clearly, Mr. Woodhead,” Dr. Watson said. “We’re looking for a young woman of five foot seven, almost twenty years old, with long brown hair and brown eyes, of muscular build.”
“Lots of girls of that description come in here.” Woodhead shrugged as he turned around. “Sorry I can’t help you.”
In a split second Sherlock twisted the overseer’s arm behind his back. Woodhead was not a small man. In fact, he was at least sixty pounds heavier than Sherlock, who was of medium build and medium height. Anyone would have bet on Woodhead in a fight.
Which was why Sherlock had a plush banking account in the Bank of England.
Sherlock whispered in his ear. “You’ll tell us where she’s gone, and you’ll not waste any more of our time, do you understand?”
“Har! har!” Woodhead laughed between gasps. “You won’t hurt me with all these people here.”
“Oh, won’t I?” Sherlock tightened his hold. “You don’t know how nice I am being right now, but you’ll soon find out if you don’t answer my question.”
Woodhead somehow managed to drop to the ground, loosening Sherlock’s grip. The overseer attempted a punch to Sherlock’s jaw, which was met with the empty air and a kick to the Woodhead’s rib cage. Sherlock swiftly put his opponent’s neck in a stranglehold.
The overseer had been correct in saying there were a good deal of people present. Being as they were in the men’s ward where fights were not
unknown, there was an unspoken acquiescence. All in attendance now circled the pair.
What Woodhead had not counted on, however, was a lack of assistance. No doubt he would beat them all at some point in the future—there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind on that score—but apparently the future punishment was worth seeing their tormentor on the receiving end of humiliation today.
He was going to beat them anyway, whether they helped or not.
Still, one had to give Mr. Woodhead credit. Even being in a stranglehold with no assistance forthcoming, he did not offer the information.
“I know where she is.” Mr. Kingsley stepped forward. He kept his eyes on Woodhead, as if he were envisioning his ensuing punishment. Fear crossed the older gentleman’s expression, wondering if he would survive the abuse.
Sherlock did not loosen his grip, but he turned his head to view the old man.
“And where is that, sir?” Dr. Watson asked.
“The pharmacist took her—a Mr. Fairclough, I believe—as he has taken many of the young people here. They all live at the commune.”
“Is that right, Woodhead?” Sherlock demanded, tightening his grip.
“It ain’t none of your business,” Woodhead boomed. He might be stupid, but he was certainly brave, Sherlock would have to give him that.
“It is now. As is your future employment. I guarantee you will not long be the overseer when Scotland Yard hears of your involvement in this crime ring.”
“B-but I don’t ‘ave nothing to do wif it! I’ve helped these people gain employment to a respected member of the community. I don’t ‘ave nothin’ to say to what the guv’nor does once he’s got them.” Woodhead had dropped his commanding persona and was now proclaiming his innocence. One thing he did not wish to lose was this job which allowed him to persecute others. “Wish I’d never seen the little bitch.”
Sherlock released his hold, planting him a facer, which knocked Woodhead to the floor. “As do I, sir.”
“We must be off, Watson.”
Before the Great Detective left the room, he pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Kingsley. “Woodhead may be indisposed for some time. At any rate, I can assure you that your overseer will not long be in employment here. Even so, if you wish to leave, I may have a small abode for you, sir. The Russian on the third floor of our Baker Street building is in need of a flat-mate to share the rent. To be honest, Mr. Uladimov may soon be seeking new living arrangements as my violin playing does not match his preferences. You, on the other hand, may not be as particular, having been accustomed to less luxurious arrangements.”
“Certainly not. If I have an hour of peace a day, it’s an extravagance.” His face fell. “But I don’t have the funds to pay.”
“That is of no moment. Tell Mrs. Hudson, my landlady, that I vouch for you and will front the rent.”
Mr. Kingsley’s expression fell with a sudden sadness, shaking his head. It was obvious that he wanted with all his being to take his new associate up on his offer. And it was no wonder. A private flat shared with one man as opposed to sixty coffin beds crammed together in a drafty room. “I can’t take your charity, sir, though I thank you.”
“Charity? Nothing of the sort. I am always on the winning end of these type of arrangements, you may ask the good doctor here.”
Dr. Watson shook his head in weary agreement.
“I speak of employment, sir,” Sherlock explained.
“You might find it more or less agreeable than your present circumstances, it is difficult to say,” Dr. Watson added.
“Is Mr. Uladimov disagreeable then?”
“Only at three a.m.,” Dr. Watson replied. “In general, he is most pleasant and it is quite a nice set of rooms. It is the employment which might not be agreeable to you.”
“Certainly not. But what could I do for you, obviously a gentleman of some means? I’m an old man.”
“I assure you, sir, that you are perfectly suited to what I have in mind,” Sherlock said. “No one better. You have illustrated your skill to me on this very day. There would be a certain danger to it, however. Making inquiries and such—an operative, as it were. Who would suspect a kindly, elderly gentleman?”
A startled expression crossed Mr. Kingsley’s countenance followed by one of some interest. He held the card with a tight grip even as Sherlock and Watson ran out the door.
Woodhead still writhed in pain on the floor. Something the overseer had inflicted on all the men present at one time or another.
Suddenly it wasn’t so much to his taste.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Human Sacrifice
As if to bring a sadistic darkness into the light, the moon cast rays of foreboding upon a small group gathering in the center of Hampstead Heath, a massive, ancient park covering almost eight hundred acres.
It was a simple matter to find privacy, particularly in the heavily forested dark of the night. Equally easy to forget that they were in the middle of London, the Hampstead station not more than twenty minutes from Westminster by hired cab.
“Our God Almighty. . .” The high priest, cloaked in a black, woolen robe, lifted the chalice high. The candlelight created a strange perspective, making it appear the chalice was resting on the branches and treetops. “We have slaved to make these vultures rich with the sweat and blood of our own hands. We have worked sixteen hours a day, without shelter, without enough food for our children, that our enslavers might spend their days with drink, fornicating.”
There were murmurs of outrage from the crowd, easily incited in these hard times of suffering and injustice.
“These evil serpents have persecuted everyone here: the hard-working poor whom you love, my Lord. Those who will inherit the earth, as Jesus told us.”
The high priest quickly became more specific in who their persecutors were. “The rich sodomites embody everything you hate and loathe: the greed, corruption and cruelty of the wealthy upper classes and the lustful, unnatural desires of the perverted which are against the love of man and woman that you have decreed.”
There’s only one problem with that picture. It’s a lie. And a forgery of logic. To love another human being is not exclusive to any gender. Neither is fornication and drink.
Cloaked in a long, hooded robe himself, Sherlock observed he appeared to be one of the few without an expression of elated agreement.
Ah, yes. Channeling one’s suffering into hatred and revenge. To hate evil was one thing, to formulate a scapegoat was another.
“As the Christ taught us, without the shedding of blood there can be no forgiveness of sins.” The priest’s high-pitched voice gained an eerie vibrato even as the chalice caught the rays of the moonlight, glistening golden. “Because you have commanded it, we will now have a live sacrifice.”
The priest motioned to some men in the clearing, who emerged from the darkness carrying . . .
Blazes to Hell, it’s a body.
Sherlock studied the form carried by four men as best he could given all the people standing in front of him and the decreased visibility of looking through a hooded cloak. He attempted to maneuver a better view but, despite the small group, everyone was packed closely together, making movement difficult.
The body was covered with a sheet and was perfectly still. Probably drugged. Probably still alive. A dead body would mean less drama and less theatrics, which would not be to the priest’s taste.
Damn this devil has a taste for bodies.
Sherlock felt a fury engulfing his being. He had never missed Watson so much in his life.
I am outnumbered twenty-to-one here. He had dashed off a message to the good doctor prior to leaving the flat, instructing Watson to contact the police. Sherlock had no way of knowing if Watson would even see the message.
As luck would have it, Mrs. Hudson was visiting her brother-in-law in Dumfriesshire and thus was unable to contact the police for him. He had no more time to spare.
Given Sherlock’s reputation with
the police, they might not respond even if they received the message. He and Athelney were not on the best of terms. And Sherlock had had no proof of wrongdoing at the point, only his hunch.
Belle was presumably here somewhere—everyone was cloaked—but even one more person against this irate mobocracy could not even the odds sufficiently. Their cause might be just, but it had become something unjust.
And terrifying. Not to mention that Belle very likely had no weapon; she seemed to have some difficulty keeping one on her. As well as using it if she had it.
Sherlock was not a praying man, but he prayed to God she was unharmed. Particularly considering the gruesome nature of this crowd, as evidenced by the nods and murmurs of support for the heinous act unfolding before them.
The message being spread here was creating monsters of execution. The murderer or murderers of Overton, Percy, Radcliffe, and Denzil—possibly more—were most certainly present, an accomplished and blood-thirsty murderer to say the least.
The priest’s voice grew louder. “Justice will be ours.”
Justice and revenge. Not the same thing.
Where is Belle? Sherlock didn’t see her in the crowd. It was some consolation that the commune number was surely greater than this: the monster behind this had not been able to convert everyone.
In an instant, his eyes dashed to the figure now on the altar.
Fear gripped his very being. No! Anything but that!
His eyes returned to the priest. I’ll kill the monster—or die trying.
Very likely the latter.
The priest’s right hand held a knife over the body, briskly removing the sheet with the left, screaming, “You must help this evil creature on his way to hell for the evil he has enacted on others.”
Sherlock fingered the pistol in his pocket. He couldn’t shoot through the crowd and he would very likely miss if he aimed over their heads. The best he could hope for was a distraction, and Belle would be killed anyway.
The sheet now removed, his horror was compounded. Mycroft! It isn’t Belle, but his brother Mycroft.
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