“Ah, so that’s your worry, is it?” There was a fire in Dr. Watson’s eyes as he downed his rum. “You can put your mind at ease, it was none of us. Though I certainly would have fired that shot, and been proud to claim it, had I arrived in time. I wouldn’t have let that monster kill Miss Mirabella.” He leaned forward. “And I hope I might count on you as well, Jones.”
“You know very well from the lack of gunpowder present the shot was fired from a great distance, Athelney,” Sherlock said. “It was therefore no one in our party.”
“Quite true. Since we were all in the midst of the danger in hand-on-hand battle where the police should have been,” Mycroft added. “Doing your undercover work for you.”
“Oh, yes, I see.” Athelney nodded distractedly. “It is odd. Do you have your suspicions as to who fired the shot?”
“More than suspicions,” Sherlock said definitively. “It could only have been one man.”
Athelney fixated his eyes on him. “And who is that?”
“Dr. Sebastian Moran.”
“Quite impossible,” Athelney sputtered. “Dr. Moran is the son of Sir Augustus Moran, Minister to Persia. He was educated at Eton and Oxford before embarking upon his military career in the 1st Bangalore Pioneers.”
“The very one,” Sherlock said. “Professor Moriarty’s top man. And a skilled shot. Rumor has it he once pursued a wounded man-eating tiger in closed quarters.”
“Don’t start with the professor nonsense again. And even if it were true, why would Moran help you out? The way you tell it, Moriarty is your sworn enemy.”
“I wondered that myself.” Sherlock glanced at Mirabella, the tone of his voice suddenly foreboding. “Obviously he feels a debt to someone.”
“But what will happen to those in the commune?” Mirabella asked.
“Most were not involved,” Sherlock said.
“How can you say that? There were at least twenty people there.”
“Some were Florence’s hired ruffians and disenchanted hoodlums from the streets,” Sherlock explained. “Florence used the numbers and the crowds to validate her purposes with the members of the commune. She needed to insure they didn’t turn against her and believed her to have her father’s support while she sought recruits.”
“Those from the commune that were involved are awaiting trial as well. I expect it will become evident they did not have an understanding of what they were doing, essentially following Florence’s orders,” Mycroft said.
“They knew what they were doing when Florence held a knife over your chest, brother,” Sherlock objected. “And yet no one attempted to stop her.”
“Difficult to prove since there was no actual murder,” Athelney said.
“No thanks to anyone there except Evie,” Sherlock said.
“I feel sorry for Evie,” Mirabella said. “I really believe her love for her children was her only motivation.”
“She may yet survive—and thrive,” Mycroft said.
“I wonder that desperation drove her to something short of madness.” Mirabella added sadly, “Losing her baby was the final blow.”
“One thing still puzzles me,” Athelney considered.
“This would be the second ‘one thing’ in the space of five minutes,” Sherlock corrected.
“The Diogenes Club.”
The amusement left Sherlock’s countenance. Few would have observed it, but Mirabella had watched him long enough to know the signs. The slight lowering of his eyelids, the sudden darkness in his slate-grey eyes, and the tightening of his fingers around the neck of his pipe told her he did not wish to pursue the subject.
Sherlock Holmes is being secretive.
This in itself was so rare, and against his straight-forward nature. If Sherlock said something, one never doubted that he meant it. There was nothing Sherlock was more devoted to than justice and the law.
“Did you wish to become a member, Sergeant Jones?” Sherlock asked, not missing a beat. “I wouldn’t have thought it. The Diogenes is an academic club, you know.”
Athelney’s eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you a member then, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am an honorary member.”
“You’re not much there, are you?”
“And you’re not much at Scotland Yard, are you, Sergeant?”
“Pffft!” Athelney Jones sputtered. “Too busy working.”
Sherlock shrugged. “There you have it. Our reasons are the same.”
“Now you listen here, Mr. ’Olmes,” Athelney put his glass down and leaned in closer to Sherlock. “Three of those what died—Overton Bristow, Lord Percival and Radcliffe—were members of the Diogenes Club. There has to be a connection.”
“Certainly thee is. They were all intelligent men. Simply because a butterfly flaps its wings in Okinawa and there is a tornado in the East Indies several weeks later does not mean the two events are related,” Sherlock said.
“Beyond a doubt, they would be,” Mycroft considered. “A better example might be because there is an influx of immigrants and the typewriter is invented, it doesn’t not necessarily mean the two events are related.”
“It depends,” Dr. Watson considered. “Was the inventor an immigrant?”
“Now you listen here, I won’t be bamboozled by the likes of you.”
“A grave disappointment,” Sherlock murmured.
“The commonality is Florence, Sergeant,” Mycroft said. “She had it in for her fiancé and his lover, both of whom happened to be members of the Diogenes.”
“True. We know for a fact Florence had it in for Marjeries—she hated them—because Overton had broken her heart and ruined her reputation.”
“As well as his own,” Mycroft added. “Overton Bristow wasn’t able to find employment anywhere after the broken engagement.”
Athelney wagged his finger in reprimand. “But the question is, why were there fairies in the Diogenes? Bristow wasn’t a member until he fell in with Lord Percival.”
“Florence was mad,” Mycroft said without hesitation. “Many a woman has been devastated in a similar matter and doesn’t go about killing everyone in sight and draining their blood.”
“And pulling their teeth,” Dr. Watson added.
“She still managed to have a good head for finance throughout it all,” Athelney posed.
“True. She saw an opportunity to enrich herself—with the blood—and ran with it.” Mycroft tilted his head in perplexity. “Are you saying she wasn’t mad? Being a greedy swine capable of profiting at the expense of others isn’t an argument for sanity.”
“It is a strangely held common belief that being good at making money is a testimony to sound judgment,” Sherlock said.
“Be that as it may, at least two of the murdered men had recently had sexual relations with other men.”
“And your point, Sergeant?” The amusement left Mycroft’s expression.
“Why did Florence target the Diogenes Club?”
“Because she hated men? And the Diogenes is a men’s club?” Mirabella considered.
“I say because the Diogenes is a front for fairies.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Florence hated her own father,” Mirabella objected. “Who, by the way, told me he would like to be a member of the Diogenes.”
“He’ll never get in,” Athelney muttered.
“The criminal here was Florence Fairclough—going about killing innocent people unrelated to her personal heartbreak. I do wish this was not such a difficult concept for you, Athelney.” Sherlock’s impatience was beginning to show.
“You haven’t answered my question, Holmes.”
Mycroft, who was generally so pleasant, suddenly had the appearance of one who was taking charge of the situation. “What do you propose to do, Sergeant? Arrest all the members of the Diogenes Club? Its members are among the most respected and prestigious families in Britain. I assure you that you can kiss your job at Scotland Yard good-bye if you proceed.” He added softly, “You shall not be ‘Sergean
t’, you shall not be ‘Police Constable’, you shall be unemployed.”
There was a quiet stillness in the room.
“Particularly in the wake of the suffering imposed upon the families of the dearly departed.” Mycroft continued. “And I doubt very seriously if you will be able to prove anything, Jones. As I have already alluded to, these are prestigious and intelligent people with whom you are dealing.”
“So you don’t deny it?”
“That you would lose your position? Certainly I do not deny it.” Mycroft smiled sweetly. “I’m not without my connections either, as you may have surmised.”
Sherlock cleared his throat, adding softly, “Not to mention that at least one of the dead at Hampstead Heath was a Peaky Blinder, which you personally took credit for, Sergeant, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t believe you would wish it to hit the papers that it was a group of private citizens who disbanded these criminals, with no help whatsoever from the force.”
“I meant to ask you about that body.” Athelney stood to leave. “I’m keeping an eye on you two.” He glanced at Dr. Watson. “And anyone associated with you.”
“You’re welcome, Athelney. We are most pleased to have ended your murderer’s reign of terror.” Sherlock turned to Mirabella. “Could you please get the Sergeant his hat and coat, Miss Belle?”
“I’d be delighted to,” she said, rising.
CHAPTER FORTY
The Butterfly and the Bat
“Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.” – Oscar Wilde
After the door had closed, Mirabella turned to the men present, frowning.
“What is it Miss Belle? You seem dismayed.”
“It was a dismaying case,” Dr. Watson said.
“Will Evie hang?” she asked.
“Not a chance of it,” Mycroft said.
“How can you possibly know that, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella asked. “She and Longstaff are the only ones left to be punished for all that has happened. They will want to punish someone, they always do.”
“Evie was able to identify some of Florence’s more zealous followers. And Mrs. Travers has even now escaped custody and is fleeing to Australia,” Mycroft said.
“She escaped?” Miracle exclaimed. “How do you know where she went?”
“We advised her to avoid the mistakes in choice of destination made by Mr. Longstaff,” Mycroft explained.
“Australia is a forward-thinking country and a good place for women,” Dr. Watson said. “Very right.”
“She escaped? But how? . . .” Mirabella turned to Sherlock. “You . . . did you arrange this, Sherlock?”
“Certainly not. I don’t have those kind of connections.” There was a gleam in Sherlock’s eye. “That should be obvious by now.”
Suddenly comprehension dawned. “But Mycroft does.”
“Very good, Miss Belle.”
“. . . But Evie . . . What she did was against the law . . .” Mirabella considered. “You always uphold the law.”
“Not all laws are just,” Mycroft said simply. “Or fit the crime.”
The terrifying image of Mycroft on the altar flashed before her eyes. “But after what they did, I can’t believe you would help her . . .”
A quivering smile formed on Mycroft’s lips. “Do you mean what she did to my own kind, Miss Hudson? I am first and foremost a member of the human race.” He stretched his legs out before him. “I take your point, though. I didn’t help Longstaff—he had to have known what was up after Percy’s murder. But I actually believe Evie was in the dark. She didn’t—wouldn’t—assist with the second murder, children or no.”
“Exceptionally kind hearted of you, Mycroft, considering . . .”
“Some of us have empathy for others. Not everyone feels hurting others will prove one’s superiority,” Mycroft said. “Entirely illogical. Besides being no way to live.”
“Certainly. When one knows oneself to be superior, there is no need to prove it,” Sherlock said.
“Moreover, an act of kindness is more likely to enlighten than an act of vengeance,” Mycroft added.
“Decidedly,” Dr. Watson agreed. “Evie will never forget you.”
Mycroft took another sandwich but his expression remained imperturbable. “Mrs. Travers has been betrayed by almost everyone who ever pretended to help her. I couldn’t bear that she should have her trust destroyed once and for all.”
“I have never in my life witnessed such an act of forgiveness,” Mirabella whispered.
“It’s all in a day’s work.” Mycroft popped the finger sandwich into his mouth.
“And what of Evie’s children and husband?” Mirabella asked. “I expect they couldn’t go to Australia with her.”
“True, the family would make her too identifiable at the present time. Her children and husband will have to follow, slipping away at intervals. But they will. When things have calmed down.”
She stared at him, stunned.
“What is it, Miss Hudson?”
“Longstaff. You knew he was involved almost from the beginning.”
“True.”
“Because you knew he hadn’t long been a butler? That couldn’t have told you. Everyone has to start their career sometime,” she said uneasily.
“Indeed. From the beginning both Longstaff and Denzil implied—quite effectively—that there was a constant stream of orgies going on at Percy’s mansion.”
“Naturally, Athelney latched onto that like a dog on a bone,” Sherlock muttered. “The age-old trick of diverting attention from oneself by defaming another.”
“It wasn’t true?”
“Not at all. There was only the occasional orgy,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly.
“Quality over quantity I always say,” Sherlock murmured.
Mirabella bit her lip.
“I’ve other news.” Mycroft sighed heavily.
“Do tell, brother dear,” Sherlock said.
“Just as Athelney has been promoted as a result of this case, I have been demoted.”
“Oh, no,” Mirabella exclaimed, jumping out of her chair. “That is not fair.”
“Life is not fair, my dear.” Mycroft lowered his eyes in humility.
Sherlock burst into laughter, a rare sight.
Mirabella turned on her heel to face her employer. “How can you be so insensitive, Mr. Holmes? This is your own brother who has been treated shamefully by the government.”
“Many people have been so. Let us look instead for someone who has been treated well by our governing body.”
Mirabella shook her head in dismay. “Your own brother.”
“Unless I miss my guess, this was a voluntary demotion,” Sherlock said, taking a puff on his pipe.
“Quite so.” Mycroft nodded. “I’ve resigned from my position as Foreign Secretary. In point of fact, I was begged to stay.”
It was Dr. Watson’s turn to burst into laughter. “I’m not surprised.”
“The Queen herself called me to Buckingham Palace and made a plea. Most tiresome.”
“You refused Queen Victoria?” Mirabella’s jaw dropped. “I don’t understand . . .”
“It was only a matter of time until Mycroft quit.” Sherlock expressed feigned sympathy. “Has the stress of all this been too much?”
“Most assuredly. But that is not the reason I resigned.”
“It has nothing to do with this case?” Mirabella asked suspiciously.
“Perhaps a little. But it was inevitable regardless.”
“Let me guess. The office of the Foreign Secretary was too much work,” Sherlock said.
“Precisely. I barely have a moment to myself.”
“To the contrary, that’s all you have, brother,” Sherlock said under his breath.
Dr. Watson chuckled. “The government doesn’t run itself. It does require a modicum of work.”
“An extraordinary amount.” Mycroft shook his head. “And the number of meetings I was required to attend. Preposterous!
Those briefings greatly interfered with my keeping abreast of what was going on.”
“But what will the country—what will we do without you?” Mirabella asked. “And are you now without an occupation?”
“Would that it were so, I would get more done. But, no, I’m a sort of attaché in the foreign office. Wining and dining foreign dignitaries and such.”
“I expect you will accomplish much more in that capacity,” Sherlock said. “You’ll keep abreast of everyone who is coming and going—and what they are up to. I expect those at the top will be seeking your advice more than ever.”
Mycroft sighed heavily. “It’s so tedious being consulted on every matter, no matter how mundane.”
“You must increase your leisure hours,” Mirabella suggested.
“I shall certainly endeavor to do so. I am much relieved to return to the life of a mid-level government employee.” Mycroft added, fanning himself. “I expect to accomplish a great deal more. Nothing gets done at the top.”
“But your entourage of assistants will be greatly reduced.” Mycroft required attendants. She couldn’t imagine this would be to his taste.
“Au contraire. I negotiated an increase in my staff.” As he stood, Mycroft glanced out the window onto Baker Street. “In fact, my carriage awaits. I must be off. I don’t wish to be late for opening night at the opera.”
“Oh, and what are you seeing, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella asked.
“Die Fledermaus.”
“Ah. The Revenge of the Bat.” Sherlock nodded with appreciation. “Sometimes art does imitate life.”
***
“Is it true, Mr. Holmes?” she asked after Mycroft had left. “Is the Diogenes Club a front for sodomites?”
“I’ve told you how I feel about that term, Miss Belle. Please do not use it again in my presence.”
“I apologize, sir. But Mycroft . . . he’s so handsome. So polite.” Why did she always like the wrong type of man?
“What does that have to say to anything?”
“I mean, men . . . and men. It’s just not right.”
“It’s not right for you, Miss Belle.” A slow smile formed on his lips. “I’m glad to know it.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 31
