The Devil & Lillian Holmes

by Ciar Cullen

  “I am still a woman. I am still full of flaws and all the horrid habits you came to overlook. I…” Lillian could not finish the sentence. She could not quite bring herself to betray George’s trust.

  She did not need to.

  “You are a vampire, or something like it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you will drink my blood or kill me, or offer me as some kind of sacrifice? Or will I, too, become a vampire? Is that how it happens?”

  “No!” She stared into her friend’s eyes. “I swear that I could not harm you should my own life depend upon it!”

  “Your beau might not be so generous. These are rare circles you run in now, Lillian.”

  “George only hurts those who deserve it. Criminals. Heinous criminals.”

  “I cannot believe we are having this conversation, but I see your brow is level.” Bess blew out a deep breath. “I knew it, somehow. It is why you survived the battle with the Jackal.”

  “Correct.”

  Bess nodded. “Thank you for the honesty.”

  Lillian paused. “You could destroy me—us—with this knowledge.”

  “If you do no evil, why would I destroy you?”

  “There are days I would destroy myself.” Lillian looked away. “It was the only way. I was dying. George gave me a choice. I chose to live.”

  “Because you love him. And because you want to find your daughter and mother.”

  “I named her Jane.”

  “I always thought that a lovely name.”

  “Yes, I know. That is why I chose it,” Lillian admitted. “I do not think much about whether names are lovely—or hats, or anything. I need you for that.”

  Bess brushed away new tears. “Where are Addie and Thomas?”

  “I sent them away on an extended vacation to keep them safe. There is a horrid, devilish woman after us, Bess. That is why I avoided you. I would not have you share Aileen’s fate. Annaluisa’s fate.”

  “So, that is what happened to Aileen.” Bess looked sad. “And Madam Pelosi, too? Why, I rather liked her, although she was…well, one of you, is that not so?”

  Lillian nodded.

  “And what of Kitty Twamley? Do not tell me that a normal woman is going to marry one of the Orleans brothers!”

  “Your feisty Irish friend is almost as courageous as you. She is mortal and will stay that way.”

  “Mortal? Does that make you immortal?” Bess fretted with her bag and gloves and grew pale. “I cannot understand any of this.”

  “Dear Bess, this is enough for one day. I can barely take it in myself. Please do not worry. Your life shall go on as normal.”

  “That is my fear! My life is abysmally boring, and I have you to blame. You take me on exciting adventures and train me to stand on my own two feet—albeit one of them hideously deformed—and then you tell me to reenter my normal life? Now you tell me things I can barely believe and advise me not to worry. You are not changed at all, Lillian. You may be some sort of…creature…but you are still very much self-absorbed.”

  “I suppose that is true,” Lillian agreed. “But I will make it up to you. Come to my house, for there are more tears to be shed for Aileen, and we will talk more. And perhaps we can venture out together somewhere. Shopping, or strolling through the park.”

  “I doubt very much that shopping has made it onto your schedule. Do you still keep that ridiculous life list of things that need doing? You were to find me a husband; you put me on the top of your list once.”

  Bess nearly smiled, and Lillian’s ramrod posture crumbled at the lovely dimples that surfaced. She broke down and hugged her friend again. “I am so lost, Bess. Please. Let us be friends again. Help me find my daughter before it is too late. I will find you a husband.”

  Bess looked nervous. “I prefer he not be…a creature, if you don’t mind.”

  Lillian laughed and brushed at her tears. “I am not at all offended. We will find you a kind, handsome, human male. Now, will you come with us?”

  Bess glanced at George, who stood with his brother in the distance, watching. When he tipped his hat she admitted, “I am afraid of your beau a little.”

  “I believe,” Lillian said, “he may be more afraid of you. Oh! And I must tell you the most extraordinary thing!”

  “I believe you have told me extraordinary things enough to last my life,” Bess replied as Lillian linked their arms and pulled her down the hill before she could change her mind.

  “I saw Mr. Conan Doyle! The creator of Sherlock Holmes! He is in town, and part of the most unusual mix of society’s brightest, including the tiresome Etta Langhan.”

  “Is this a fantasy again, Lillian?” Bess asked, staring up at her in surprise.

  Lillian laughed and felt a bit lighter of spirit. Then the crying boys ran over and she remembered this was no time for mirth. Perhaps someday.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mr. Doyle spies on his companions.

  Arthur paced the length of his room at the Altamont, tortured at what to do. He’d missed one lecture in New York and would soon miss one in Boston if he didn’t board the train today. And yet, now did not seem the time to leave.

  He lit a cigarette, only to realize one burned in the tray on the desk. Nerves frayed, tired from the chest cold that hadn’t lessened, he finally sat to read the telegram from his booking agent, waiting for his arrival in Boston. Yes, as he’d thought. He scanned the few lines and saw what he expected. BREACH OF CONTRACT and REPUTATION PUT AT RISK.

  What kind of city was this? The alleys of Whitechapel couldn’t claim to be more threatening and mysterious than the streets of upper-class Baltimore. Four deaths in the last month, and two of note in the month before that, including Baltimore’s mayor? He imagined that a bit more digging would unearth additional crimes. Lieutenant Worthington had not greeted him as openly this last visit, as evidently Baltimore’s law enforcement was taking criticism that even the better neighborhoods weren’t safe, that they couldn’t catch a brazen murderer and didn’t know where to begin.

  And now this, the demise of Officer Johnnie Moran’s lady friend.

  The news had shaken Doyle, as he liked the young man who was more intelligent than his simple demeanor might indicate, and honest and straightforward. Until two days ago, he’d seemed a fairly happy man, but his happiness was taken by the same hand that killed the psychic Annaluisa Pelosi, it seemed.

  Drained, Johnnie had said. Drained of life, of blood, of dignity.

  He’d had no details on the deaths of two members of the Learned Order of Psychic Scholars, men of whom Arthur knew very little, a Doctor Schneider and a solicitor named Pemberton. But subtle inquiries had put them at the house of one Lillian Holmes, his devoted Sherlock Holmes fan and a friend to Johnnie Moran himself.

  He stood again and paced. Confounding! The woman at the train station had to have been her; there could not be two Lillian Holmes of that standing and description. And she had mentioned the murder in her home of a character called the Jackal, which was perhaps her name for Schneider or Pemberton. Then there was this astounding vampire business. Etta Langhan’s stories weren’t to be trusted fully, that much he knew by the woman’s displayed taste for gossip, but the topic matched what Miss Holmes had written in her letter.

  Arthur shook his head and released a great sigh. Why, it was easier to create complex mysteries in his head than to unravel this real one under his feet. And much safer! What would Sherlock Holmes do, he wondered. Not likely take the next train to Boston to give a lecture to half-believers and skeptics.

  How I wish I had the man’s courage, intellect, and loyal companion.

  Here seemingly was a tale of spiritism under his nose—unless these Baltimoreans were all insane. Perhaps he should knock on Miss Holmes’s door or visit the “odd” Orleans brothers. But, no, Johnnie Moran was the safe point of entry into this mystery.

  But the poor man is grief-stricken.

  Damn, how he wished Bram shared his interest in t
he spiritism studies! A man with a full knowledge of vampire folklore would come in quite handy at the moment, either to cast it all aside as nonsense or point him in the right direction. But Bram did not share his interest and thus Arthur was left to make his own decision: Get on the train, or stay and try to see what evidence of other realms this city had to offer.

  Do the sensible thing, Arthur. The booking agent would have his hide otherwise.

  But hadn’t he done the sensible thing his whole life? He’d become a physician rather than an explorer, a writer rather than a hero, a second-rate husband and perhaps a poorer father. And he wanted a chance to visit with the Society again. A few of the members, notably Congressman Coyle and Donnelly, the writer, were part of a more elite club, as he’d heard them speaking privately in a room of the congressman’s mansion.

  “Where is the child?” Donnelly asked. “Dr. Schneider was to take care of all that. This is impossible! All our work gone to hell because of Pemberton’s heavy-handedness.”

  “She is not a stupid woman,” Coyle answered. “And she has friends, it seems. Powerful friends.”

  “Aye, but she has a very powerful enemy. Still, tell me where the child is.”

  Then Arthur had been interrupted from his eavesdropping by a squealing Miss Langhan blathering on about his novels and the wonderful lecture. Had the men been speaking of Miss Lillian Holmes? Did the woman have a child? Was that the reason Schneider and Pemberton were murdered, to keep some sordid affair quiet? Sherlock would know what to do next; why didn’t his creator?

  Pulled from his thoughts by a knock on the door, Arthur answered it to see a young, rail-thin man in a cheap suit of clothes.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I am a reporter for the Morning Herald, and I wondered if you would be willing to discuss your stories with me.”

  “Absolutely not, young man. I have put that work aside for a more profound calling.”

  The reporter looked crushed, and then angry. “I see, and you wouldn’t be willing to discuss anything?”

  “You would discuss anything?” Arthur snapped. “The weather, my dinner last night?”

  “I write on commission, Mr. Doyle. I do what I have to do. If you have an opinion on Baltimore’s weather or your meal, I’ll dutifully record it.”

  He needs a hot meal and employment. How old is he, even past twenty years? Arthur combed his hand through his hair and let out a breath. “Sorry, my good man. I’m usually not so disagreeable, I hope. Come in, and let’s see if we can work something out. That’s a difficult calling you’ve chosen.”

  The young man smiled and extended his hand. “Journalism? I find it incredibly easy. Just tell the public what they should think. Once inked, an opinion becomes truth—at least until the next morning’s edition comes out.”

  “I say! Then I should be careful about what opinions I express to you.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll likely change your words to suit the public’s expectations.”

  “How old are you, young man?”

  “Younger than most, Mr. Doyle. My name is Mencken. My friends call me H. L.”

  “Well, H. L., my friends call me Doyle or Arthur, so you can take your pick. What do you think of the recent murders besieging your fair city? Isn’t that a better topic than what some novelist thinks about Baltimore?”

  “I know nothing of the murders, sir, except what I read in the paper I’m trying to work for. I assume none of what I’ve seen is true.”

  “So, now we do have something of interest to discuss. Come, sit, and I’ll order some dinner for us while we chat. Perhaps I can point you in some very interesting directions. And if you unravel this story, you will get that post at the paper.”

  Mencken sat. “I imagine Mr. Holmes would solve a mystery far more quickly than I could.”

  “Ah, true. I do not, however, possess Mr. Holmes’s skills. And in any case, he is dead.”

  “By your hand,” the reporter accused. “Did you grow bored of him?”

  “A little. Perhaps a little jealous.”

  Mencken nodded. “I understand.”

  Arthur examined the youth carefully. Perceptive, quick, and no doubt educated at the school of hard knocks. He’d had trouble in his life, and jealousy no doubt as well. “Yes, I think perhaps you do. How did you get to be such a cynic at so young an age, H. L.?”

  “A cynic? I prefer to think of myself as a realist.”

  “My boy, you are then likely never disappointed in your fellow man, as you expect so little.”

  “I have said that very thing myself!”

  And with that, Arthur’s decision was made. He’d made a new friend, and Baltimore felt a trifle safer already.

  I never liked Boston, so this is no great shame.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A message in blood.

  Lillian imagined that her home had never been so busy, as she hadn’t properly entertained in it, ever. Entertained? She hadn’t even run her own household until she shipped Thomas and Addie to the seaside, and now to Chicago. She loathed gatherings and parties but wanted to give Aileen’s mourners a proper repast, so she had hired the grocer Eisner’s wife to drape the mirrors and prepare a banquet. She herself could barely make a proper cup of tea. No responsibilities had made her soft, she reflected, and prone to ineptitude at every normal female undertaking.

  She had made a few concessions to what she considered morose traditions but put her foot down at others she considered downright barbaric: No portrait of Aileen’s corpse was allowed. Of course, in its horrid state, even Johnnie would not have wanted that. Lillian had instructed Mrs. Eisner to ensure the boys’ room remained bright and cheery, with no black bunting, and even allowed Mr. Lincoln in the house. Their lot was gloomy enough. If she were married she might look into how to adopt the boys, or at least Aileen’s brother, though that was likely not necessary. In truth she could call all the children her own and no one would care. No official would come calling; a judge would consider her plea a waste of time. The boys were disposable, and legions like them roamed the city, filled jails, and worked as little better than slaves in the factories and canneries.

  Her boys would go to school for once in their lives, she vowed; they would be literate and have adventures and gay times along with their sister Jane. But at the moment just the thought of raising three children let alone four felt beyond her ability.

  She would need help but could hire it. She did not have much to offer the world, but money was in plentiful supply.

  Addie, why am I rich? Can’t someone please tell me at least that much?

  Her new solicitor, Bess’s cousin, couldn’t. He had bolted upright in his chair when he opened the folder of documents secured from the Jackal’s law firm. “I know you believe Mr. Pemberton could have been stealing from you, Miss Holmes,” he’d said, “but if he did, he also invested your money wisely and you are none the worse for whatever he took.”

  Yes, I will hire a lot of help, Lillian decided. What else would the money be good for?

  She surveyed the parlor, where Bess made uncomfortable small talk with Kitty as if she clung to the one person she was sure wasn’t a “creature.” She’d given Sullivan and Phoebe a wide berth, as well as George and Phillip. Poor Bess, how long would she be able to sustain her composure? Still, how wonderful to enjoy her presence again!

  Johnnie Moran sat quietly, politely accepting occasional attempts at conversation but without true interest. The man was numb, in shock. Lillian thought she might be as well, but that numbness was a bit better than feeling grief. George had tried to encourage her true feelings to surface, as he knew her long habit of burying her troubles. He’d held her tightly and whispered that it was quite fine to cry. But the tears had stopped coming. Lillian only felt fury and knew not how to express that.

  Her medicine had helped calm her a bit, and the voices had once again subsided. Yet, George had barely left her side for a moment, which made her anxious. She knew
he watched her carefully, no doubt afraid she’d create more of a mess. Every hour brought more bad news, more worry, and the desire for more medicine. At least Addie and Thomas were safe. A telegram had announced their happy arrival in Illinois.

  Lillian gathered up the boys and a plate of cookies and ushered them up the stairs to Aileen’s room, now theirs. George and Phillip had replaced the boys’ simple pallets with real beds, and even created a spot for Abraham on the floor with an old blanket. Lillian had quickly made other changes, removing feminine accoutrements with blinding speed so Aileen’s personal effects wouldn’t chisel away at this charade of normalcy she’d struggled to maintain. Except for the lingering lavender of Aileen’s ghostly presence, she’d made the boys a home of their own.

  Billy O’Shaunessy, the oldest, pulled at her skirt and she stopped on the staircase. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Lincoln must go out, Miss Holmes. Just for a little bit, if you take my meaning.”

  “Yes, Billy, I take your meaning. Don’t be long.”

  “Can’t we go out and play for a little?” Billy’s brother Darby asked.

  Lillian was taken aback. Play? His sister was dead and he wanted to play? Was this normal?

  “Do you want to play as well, Paddy Moran?”

  Paddy shook his head, but slowly, as if he weren’t sure of the proper answer, and when she looked back Lillian saw in Billy’s eyes a child far wiser than his twelve years, far wiser than she’d been at his age.

  “Well, it won’t do for the neighbors to see you having a merry time today. You must keep to the yard and not roll a hoop or kick a ball in the alleyway, is that clear?”

  Billy squeezed her hand, which squeezed her heart. “Thank you, miss. I think it’s for the best.”

  “I suppose it is, Billy. You are in charge of keeping things quiet.”

  The boys were off in a flash.

  Good, Lillian thought. She now had a chance for a last inspection of the room, to ensure there was nothing left to cause anguish to the boys.

  She carried the plate of cookies inside Aileen’s old chamber, but she must have dropped them, as she heard the plate break on the floor. It sounded miles away. On the mirror over the chest of drawers, scrawled in blood so fresh that she could smell it—and to her horror, it smelled appealing—were the words I HAVE YOUR CHILD.