Sanguine (Improbable Truths #1)
Page 6
"You know him, don't you?" Lucy asked, her voice little more than a whisper now. "You know Moriarty."
Holmes's only answer was to open his hand. The rune had disappeared. "Are you satisfied?" Holmes asked, turning slightly to address a shadow at his back.
"Completely." Lestrade stepped forward into the flickering lamp light. "I don't know how you do it, Holmes. A woman!"
"Women are no less capable of horrific acts than men," Holmes said. "Consider Countess Elizabeth Bathory who rivaled Vlad the Third in her thirst for blood or, more contemporary, Mary Ann Cotton who wielded poison with an artful hand and Kate Bender who took up a knife to aid in her family duties. I suspect those police were equally as astonished that their killer was a member of the fairer gender, yet the facts remained. It is facts that we must rely on instead of our own preconceived notions."
"Surely these are extenuating circumstances if ever they applied," I protested. The thought of grouping Lucy, a survivor by all rights, with those that killed for glee or simple lunacy seemed unfair.
"She'll have a fair trial," Lestrade said.
I took the detective at his word, for even having known him such a short time, his appreciation for justice and fairness in all things was nearly palpable.
Holmes eyed the woman in the center of the chalk circle. "I fear worse awaits her than a trial." The words were a whisper on the night wind and I scarcely convinced myself that I had indeed heard them. Holmes's expression hadn't changed.
Lucy collapsed to her knees as if the invisible hands that had held her captive no longer gripped her and, suddenly without such support, she could no longer manage her own weight. Lestrade hurried forward and fastened a heavy pair of shackles about the woman's wrists, then hefted her to her feet. Lucy didn't resist. She hung her head, all the fight gone from her with her confession.
"Wait a moment," Holmes said as Lestrade turned to escort his prisoner to her waiting judgement.
To this day, Holmes has not shared with me what he said to Lucy Hopes as he whispered into her ear just then. Whatever words of wisdom he imparted did not seem to surprise her for her face remained unchanged, an echo of Holmes's own stoic visage. She did not move as Holmes reached to her throat and clasp his hands around the necklace that rested against her breast. Only then did she jerk away from him, the jewelry's chain snapping at the motion. Without a word, captor and captive faded into the night.
"What, pray you, is that?" I asked Holmes as he returned to my side.
"Something that does not belong to her," he said. Holmes opened his hand and the light of the streetlamp flashed off gold and a ruby the color of clotted blood. A red glow pulsed deep inside the stone and I turned away before I could no longer convince myself it was simply a trick of the light.
As I have grown more familiar with my friend, I have also grown bolder in my speech and actions around him. At this time, however, we were scarcely more than strangers whom fate had thrust together upon the same path. Therefore I hesitated to point out to Holmes that the ruby necklace hardly belonged to him either and that the proper thing to do was to turn it over to the police. Holmes however had already intuited my unspoken protest.
"It is best safe with us," he said, pocketing the gem. Holmes straightened his long coat and top hat, then turned in the opposite direction of our lodgings. The darkness welcomed him as one of its own.
Something brushed against my legs and I barely refrained from making a spectacle of myself, lest anyone had remained to observe. A loud mewling cry originated from the direction of my feet and I looked down into Ignatius's bright amber eyes.
"What do you want?" I asked.
His only answer was to rub against my pant leg once more, leaving a carpet of hairs behind I was certain.
"Off with you." I shoved at him with my foot.
As quick as a hawk snaps a mouse from the field, sharp claws imbedded themselves into the delicate flesh of my gastrocnemius muscle and then Ignatius was gone. As elusive a shadow as his master. Laughter that was not my own echoed in my mind.
***
The mornings that followed dawned little more the wiser for the nocturnal goings on of that fateful night. Holmes settled into a fit of despondency since the conclusion of the case and languished upon the divan at all hours of the day and night. Ignatius had regained his preferred perch upon the sitting room bookcase. I took my tea at my usual place in the dining room each morning while perusing the day's papers. No more was said between us about Lucy or the necklace or Moriarty.
There were articles in the paper, of course, but I wisely kept these to myself. Only The Sun had managed to scoop the story of the Lucy's capture and, even then, their typesetters had failed to find room for it on the front page. Instead they had installed it at the top of page two, a place probably more fitting the nature of the article. While my colleague was undisturbed by the idea of female murderers, I was uncertain that the rest of the world was ready for the brazen advertisement of the gentler sex's harder side.
That first article was brief and, thankfully, avoided the more awkward details from the previous night's adventures. But neither did the article mention Holmes's name and that bothered my conscience. In fact, the majority of the article seemed to focus on the most wondrous qualities of Detective Lestrade and the highlights of his upwardly rising career. While I had so far been quite fond of my new detective friend, it seemed to me that without Holmes's help, Lucy would most certainly have faded away into the background of the city now that she had taken her revenge and Lestrade would never have closed the case. Further articles painted Lucy in a more forgiving light as details of her confession came to be known. A heartbroken woman who had risen above her hardships and sought justice upon the deranged brothers when the law could not. I hoped it was enough to see her through a trial and to freedom on the other side.
It was at this time that I decided to spend my spare hours recording the events of this sanguine affair, the result of which you are now reading. None of this I shared with my companion. Not until....
"Holmes!" I leapt up from the table so quickly that my chair crashed to the floor. A morose grunt answered. "She's dead," I said, rushing into the sitting room, newspaper in hand.
Holmes roused himself from the divan only reluctantly. "I would not expect otherwise. What does the paper say?"
"Only that she was found dead in her cell. The police suspect suicide."
Nodding solemnly, Holms lay back down. "She should not have involved herself with Moriarty. He never intended to let her live."
"I don't understand…."
"It is perhaps best that you do not…for now, at least." Holmes turned his back on me then and I understood that our conversation had come to an end. For now, at least.
Non est ad astra mollis e terries via, Ignatius said from his perch on the bookcase.
"I wouldn't know," Holmes mumbled, already half asleep. "Pulvis et umbra sumus."
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Thanks to Anne Ramsey for suffering through the initial drafts and helping me bring this story to life.
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Works by J. R. Burnett:
Trapped by Light and Shadow
Wolf Moon (Furred, Feathered, and Fanged #1)
Ashes to Ashes (Furred, Feathered, and Fanged #2)
Outfoxed (Furred, Feathered, and Fanged #3)
Sanguine (Improbable Truths #1)
Connect with J. R. Burnett online:
E-mail: burnett.author@gmail.com
Website: http://www.jrburnett.net
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jrburnettauthor
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/jrburnett