The Devil & Lillian Holmes

by Ciar Cullen

  “Yes. I will be careful.”

  “There is no amount of care that can be taken to guard against her. At least, not with our current numbers. You are unsafe out of my sight.”

  “Unsafe with or without you, so what does it matter?”

  Another knife thrust. They were hounded by a devil, and Lillian might be giving up on everything.

  As he left her house, George prayed for perhaps the second time in a century.

  * * *

  Lillian flattened out a page of her journal, intending to write about seeing Mr. Conan Doyle. She also listened for any commotion at the door that might be the hansom driver with information on the author’s whereabouts.

  Not telling George had been difficult. Very difficult. And yet, it hadn’t seemed the time or place to point out the presence of a man who had expressed an interest in vampires. She was still embarrassed about her mistake. God, how angry would George be if he learned she’d discussed a murder before one of the greatest investigative minds ever? And Doyle was a physician, she remembered, who might recognize more quickly the peculiarities of her person.

  Peculiarities. Her hand shook too much to write. Not all of her peculiarities were related to vampirism. Why had the voices returned? What would George think of her, should she tell him that the old delusions had resurfaced and were not related to her medicine? Would he believe her that she hadn’t yet taken a pill? He hadn’t hated her for it before, but he’d gone to great lengths to help her recover.

  Perhaps I am truly insane, she thought. And if I am insane, I am not worthy of George. I will certainly put him and his brother and all they care about at more risk than I already have. Mr. Doyle. I cannot even remember what I said to him!

  When feeling her best, she had been reckless in her letter to Mr. Doyle. What would she do to endanger George’s secrets if she were hearing voices, running down the streets of Baltimore, pushing past strangers and talking to herself? What choice would George have but to lock her away? God, how could she have imagined herself fit to be a mother?

  Perhaps…perhaps it was simply the stress of things, the constant worry, the recent changes in her body and mind. Not being able to speak honestly to her friends, not being able to do anything normal… It thrilled her to catch criminals in the act and dispose of them before they could do mortal harm, but sometimes, sometimes she chastised herself. Weren’t those criminals still human? Did she enjoy being judge and executioner a bit too much? Where was her former strict adherence to law and order? Was “justice” simply an excuse to tear into a neck and suck a body dry, to feel the life throb in her veins and strength stir in her limbs? It came close to the ecstasy she shared with George in their bed, and at times even exceeded it. Had her metamorphosis left her with any sanity, any humanity?

  Do you truly want me to find you, my child? She had already assigned a name to her missing girl: Jane. Lovely Jane—with long dark hair, no doubt. Lillian refused to believe the child had inherited any of her rapist father’s looks or temperament. But are you any better than he, Lillian? You’re a devil yourself.

  Where is she? Why can’t I find a clue? And there were no good choices about the future.

  Too much, too much. Lillian laid her head on her desk and wept until she had no strength to even change her clothes. She closed her journal and opened her desk drawer to return the book to its proper place. As she did, one tiny pill rolled forward. Her medicine. Lillian stared at it and wondered, for the thousandth time, if Jane would want to be found. If her own mother would want to be found. And what they would think of her should she be successful in her search.

  She should not have sent George away. But she would make it right tomorrow, she swore, and she put the journal back and picked up the pill.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  An unlikely friendship develops.

  Johnnie Moran tapped lightly on his commander’s door, his stomach turning with worry. Lieutenant Worthington rarely had good tidings to deliver in person, so this likely meant trouble. How would he support his brother if he lost this post? What had he done? What hadn’t he done? Damn it all, he’d been preparing to propose to Aileen, to take her two young brothers into his household—

  A grunt of acknowledgment and the sound of a chair sliding on the wood floor made him pull his thoughts together. He’d take misfortune like a man and do whatever needed doing. Hadn’t that been the case since he was a boy?

  He entered his commander’s room and took off his cap.

  “Moran, have a seat,” Worthington directed. The Walrus, named for his enormous whiskers, had company much to Johnnie’s surprise—a stranger, a well-dressed man who seemed to take him in with one quick glance.

  The Lieutenant made introductions and returned to his seat behind a cluttered desk. “Johnnie here will be able to tell you a bit more about the Rennard murder. It’s one of a half-dozen over the last year that come to mind. Despicable. We aren’t prone to such violence, I assure you, Mr. Doyle. These anomalies may be the work of a single man. A regular Henry Holmes he seems to be, although his targets are not only women and children.”

  “Ah, I’m only vaguely familiar with your famous Henry Holmes. Sensational cases, I understand.”

  “You didn’t name your Mr. Sherlock Holmes after America’s serial killer, did you?” the Lieutenant asked with wry humor.

  “Ah! Indeed, I did not! It’s a most unfortunate coincidence.”

  “Fortunately—and I mean that speaking as a native of this city—most of his horror was perpetrated in Chicago during the World’s Fair in ’Ninety-three, although he managed to collect victims on the eastern seaboard as well. Many of them children. Some estimates put the number of victims as high as two hundred.”

  “Dear Lord, he makes our Ripper seem a choirboy in comparison.”

  “Well, his execution brought some note of satisfaction.”

  Doyle nodded. “If I had written his story, I would have been accused of creating a profoundly unbelievable villain.”

  Johnnie sat up straighter, fascination overcoming his nerves. “Why, Sherlock Holmes the detective? You are the writer? Oh, I have a friend who would like very much to make your acquaintance straightaway!”

  Worthington cleared his throat and shook his head slightly, an annoyed frown quickly masked as he turned to Doyle. Johnnie’s flush crept down to his collar. Why couldn’t he hold his tongue? As if this gentleman would socialize with a friend of his. He desperately wanted to add that it was a lady of society, but Worthington would have his head.

  But, Miss Holmes would also never forgive him if he didn’t do his best to put them together. So he would find a way to tell Miss Holmes that didn’t jeopardize his position.

  Doyle made some mild noise of interest without answering. He leaned forward and, hands tented on his lap, stared at Johnnie with anticipation. But the next words he spoke were not about his fictional creation. “This may strike you as a bit strange, Officer Moran, but I am quite interested in unusual phenomena, including psychic connections with the spirit world and other evidence of a plain of existence we cannot see with our eyes.”

  What?

  Worthington cast a quick warning glance at Johnnie, who managed to remain focused on the guest.

  “I see,” Johnnie said.

  “I read in your newspaper about the murder of the gypsy woman on the roof.”

  “Yes…” Johnnie resisted squirming a bit in his seat, wondering again where the devil this was leading. Had he done something wrong? Perhaps he shouldn’t have discussed the case so openly with his friends.

  “Tell me what you saw, if you would,” Doyle said.

  “Well, not a real gypsy, sir. A gypsy woman would have darker skin, at least by the few I’ve seen. Of course, it might have been the sun and the shriveling… Hard to tell what she looked like.”

  “Scarves, colorful scarves, and many layers of chains and wrist ornaments, the newspaper report said.”

  “Oh, yes, she looked dressed for the circus.
Like one of those fortune-tellers. That is what I meant by gypsy.”

  “Precisely, my good man!” Doyle turned to Worthington and added, “I wish you hadn’t already buried her. Perhaps I could have been more certain.”

  “There wasn’t much of the body to see, sir. Shriveled, like a mummy. Otherwise I would try to get an order for exhumation. It wouldn’t help.”

  Doyle frowned. “If that is my acquaintance, her body should not have deteriorated so in such a short time. Why, I corresponded with her only last week! But it does sound like her. A terrible tragedy. She seemed to truly have the gift.”

  “And what was her name again, Mr. Doyle?” Worthington took up his pen.

  “I knew her as Madam Annaluisa Pelosi, although I am unsure if that was her given name. In truth, I heard her once claim to be French and on another occasion to be from New Orleans, which is where I corresponded with her. She toured through England and Scotland, as well as France, giving extraordinary exhibitions of her talents. She was to entertain at the meeting last evening I discussed with you. My lecture fell somewhat flat without her performance to enhance it. We were sorely disappointed she did not keep her appointment. Had we known…” He let out a sigh and seemed genuinely troubled by her apparent loss.

  Johnnie rubbed at his chin. Madam Annaluisa Pelosi. Why was that name familiar? He’d not met any fortune-teller, yet… Wait! Hadn’t Aileen said that Miss Holmes and Miss Wheeler saw a fortune-teller at a dinner party? “I—”

  Worthington coughed to interrupt him.

  “But—”

  Another cough and a quick hand gesture of dismissal. “Thank you, Johnnie.”

  The Scottish gentleman stood and offered his hand, a generous gesture Johnnie felt. Evidently he didn’t think Johnnie lower than the oyster-shuckers and shoeblacks. “Thank you, officer,” the man said, “for your help.”

  “I didn’t get a chance—”

  Worthington stood with a look that said the next word would bring serious consequences.

  Johnnie left. Shutting the door behind him, he muttered, “Pompous fellow. He should learn something from Mr. Doyle.”

  Straightening his coat and hat, he quit the station at a fast pace to begin his shift. At least he had harbor patrol tonight, which would put him in a neighborhood where cursing on the street was not only common but an essential part of keeping the peace. He had plenty of curses on the tip of his tongue of late.

  Johnnie had taken but a few steps when a tap on his shoulder made him spin around. Doyle. And the man had a smile for him.

  A friendly poke of a walking stick to his chest and a twinkle in the man’s eye put Johnnie at ease. “Forgive me, Officer,” the Scotsman said, “as I do not wish to put you at odds with your commander, but may I walk with you for a moment? I have the feeling we left something unsaid.”

  “I don’t think the Walrus would be happy to see me talking with you,” Johnnie warned.

  Doyle chuckled and brushed at his own mustache. “The Walrus, is it? Don’t fear, Officer Moran. I asked for an escort back to my hotel. Can’t be too careful in a foreign city.”

  “It’s not that dangerous in daylight here, sir. Not every visitor is murdered on the roof of their lodgings.”

  Doyle remained silent, and Johnnie regretted coming terribly close to calling the great man a coward. Doyle didn’t know the city, perhaps didn’t even know his way back to his hotel.

  “At least you’ll be safe from pickpockets in my company, sir!”

  Doyle laughed. “Capital. Do call me Arthur.”

  Johnnie straightened, suddenly hoping the pompous Walrus was watching. Won’t Aileen be proud when I tell her this great man asked me to call him Arthur!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Driving the snakes from America.

  Phillip put his finger to Kitty’s mouth to silence her gasps at the magnificence of the cathedral. He reminded himself that while he’d lived in a castle and seen the natural and manmade treasures the world had to offer, Kitty’s life had started on a small farm in Ireland. Since she was a girl, she’d spent nearly all her time as a cleaning woman for a bakery, a jewelry shop, and two spinster sisters in Baltimore. Her artistic talent had brought her some modest success recently and she could now live in comfort without his fortune, but even her love for a vampire hadn’t purged her totally of naivety. She was devoted to her Catholic God, and now she was in His house.

  Phillip shrugged, having seen far grander cathedrals, but he didn’t mention that to Kitty, who rushed to put a penny in the box and to light a candle. He knelt next to her and whispered, “Do not move from this spot, Kitty. I will try to make this quick.”

  She stared up at him, her beautiful blue eyes sad. “Does it hurt you to be in a church?”

  “Oh, love, no, it does not at all!”

  But he lied. It hurt just a bit. He could dip his hand in blessed water and make the sign of the cross without consequence, but an irrational fear that some great holy man might divine his true nature always nagged at him. No matter, though. How many truly holy men resided in New York?

  He sniffed out a laugh and rubbed at Kitty’s shoulder. “Whether he is here or not, I’ll be but a moment. At least, that is my hope.”

  Phillip had found Chauncey Sullivan’s home easily enough, but not the man. He didn’t expect to find the giant in church despite the wife’s assurances; no doubt Chauncey had made excuses to her to cover other escapades. But, as Phillip strode quietly along the aisle, he saw his quarry midway up the nave, sitting in a central pew.

  So, Sullivan’s yearning for redemption was this deep? This boded well for his mission.

  Phillip slid into the pew next to Chauncey and moved close.

  The vampire didn’t even turn, just threaded his fingers together as if to calm himself. He said, “How long has it been, Phillip?”

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

  “Somehow, I’m not. Phoebe is a trusting sort, isn’t she?”

  “She’s lovely. I’m happy for you.”

  “Yes, she is. She frets for me, wanting me to pray but worrying for me when I come here to do it.”

  “You don’t strike me as superstitious, Chauncey. The holy water and crucifix won’t hurt you.”

  Sullivan turned to Phillip with a smirk. “The good fathers would drag me out for being a Negro, Phillip. It is why I come only at night. That’s a bit ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Phillip groaned, and they sat in silence for a minute, taking in the gilt and glowing candles that threw shadows on the altar and statues. Then Phillip suggested, “You could go anywhere, live as a king in another land.”

  “You were a king, as I recall. Or was that your brother? Did it bring much happiness?”

  “You’re really as miserable as I recall. Isn’t it time you put all that in the past?”

  Chauncey turned, an inscrutable expression on his face. “I sense you are going to tell me exactly what I should do to obtain a bit of peace. I also sense that you came to New York to find me for a very particular purpose.” He stared harder at Phillip. “I’m feeling a bit peckish, so get on with it.”

  Phillip rubbed his hands together, fully aware that Chauncey could kill him in an instant. “Your Marie de Bourbon is hounding us, Chauncey. She’s killed Annaluisa Pelosi and takes direct aim at George. We don’t know why, but there’s a rumor she’s put a price on his head. Perhaps she’s taken this long to want to destroy her maker.”

  Chauncey’s expression did not change. “Always liked you, Phillip. Never much liked your brother.”

  “He liked you, though. After all, you are as a grandchild to him. George is a tough one to—”

  “Of course I’ll help you.”

  What? Just like that, Chauncey was willing to go up against his maker? No protests, no conditions? Phillip had been ready to offer Chauncey leadership of a Baltimore House with allegiance from the Orleans brothers; a small prize, but something. Now he blew out a deep breath and kept silent.

>   “Just keep Georgy at a distance. He gets under my skin.”

  Why? Why would you do this? But aloud: “Of course. We’ll talk more about it…when you come to Baltimore.”

  Chauncey reached into his coat and clutched something close to his chest. For a moment, Phillip thought the vampire might pull out a dagger, so he slid away a few feet and stood. “Right. Wonderful, then! My home is—”

  “I wondered where she was, and how I’d hear about it.” Chauncey shook his head. “I’ll find you. Say nothing of this to Phoebe. She doesn’t know about Marie. About us.”

  “What doesn’t she know? That she is your maker?”

  Chauncey glared and arched a brow. “Phoebe might give up on rescuing my soul if she knew who turned me.”

  Phillip shuddered. “Oh. No, of course I’ll say nothing.” He paused. “Well, then, I’ll be on my way and leave you to your prayers.”

  “Prayers?” Chauncey chuckled. “I simply like the stained glass. The images. They help me think. To plan.”

  Phillip nodded, wondering if the man had evaded insanity after all.

  He rushed to the back of the church and grabbed Kitty by the hand. She protested, “I’m not finished praying.”

  “You can pray on the train home, dear.”

  “Whatever is wrong? Did you find your man? You look like you saw a ghost!”

  Phillip nodded. “I feel like I saw a ghost.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Miss Holmes’s nighttime rendezvous.

  George lit his pipe, knowing that neither the smell nor flicker of the match would be seen or smelled from two stories below.

  He’d sat like a gargoyle throughout the night, feet hanging over the edge of Lillian’s roof, watching for activity below. A cab had pulled in front of her house and the driver spoke briefly with the maid, Aileen, but then left whistling happily. That was curious, but surely not the work of Marie de Bourbon. No one had died, at least not as far as George could tell.

  Hunger gnawed at him, but he wouldn’t leave Lillian alone with that she-devil running loose in the city. As Lil had noted, rather coldly, there might not be much he could do to protect her, but she was a target because of her love for him and he wouldn’t abandon her. At least, not until she ordered him to.