CONTENTS
Dedication
Praise for Suzette's novels
ISBN, disclaimers, copyright Cover art by
Chapter One - Without a Case
Chapter Two - The Archway of Tears
Chapter Three - The Feast of Blood
Chapter Four - The Cook
Chapter Five - What Else Shall Go Missing?
Chapter Six - The Workhouse
Chapter Seven - A Vampire Army
Chapter Eight - Resurrection Men. And Women.
Chapter Nine - Autopsy Results
Chapter Ten - An Unusual Murder
Chapter Eleven - The Body Tells All
Chapter Twelve - The Madame’s Apothecary
Chapter Thirteen - A Love Potion
Chapter Fourteen - Killing Spree
Chapter Fifteen - Predictable Unpredictability
Chapter Sixteen - It Gets Worse
Chapter Seventeen - In the Devil’s Lair
Chapter Eighteen - The Vampire strikes again
Chapter Nineteen - The Baker Street Irregulars
Chapter Twenty - On Their Own
Chapter Twenty-One - In the Lion’s Den
Chapter Twenty-Two - Surprised
Chapter Twenty-Three - The Ceremony
Chapter Twenty-Four - A Family Affair
Chapter Twenty-Five - Undercover
Chapter Twenty-Six - In Pursuit of a Dream
Chapter Twenty-Seven - James Taylor & Company
Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Shabbiest Shoe Shoppe
Chapter Twenty-Nine - An Alliance with the Devil
Chapter Thirty - On the Inside Looking Out
Chapter Thirty-One - An Abrupt Departure
Chapter Thirty-Two - The Devil's Due
Chapter Thirty-Three - Walking Into A Trap
Chapter Thirty-Four - Time is of the Essence
Chapter Thirty-Five - Human Sacrifice
FrontPc
Chapter Thirty-Six - Outlaw Justice
Chapter Thirty-Seven - A Close Call
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Sherlock Reveals All
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Suspicions
Chapter Forty - The Butterfly and the Bat
Chapter Forty-One - An Organization in Crisis
Chapter Forty-Two - A Good Deed Borne in Tragedy
Chapter Forty-Three - Promises were meant to be Broken
Chapter Forty-Four - A Dream Come True
Chapter Forty-Five - Partners
Chapter Forty-Six - An Unwanted Education
Thank You
Acknowledgements
Author’s Notes
Author Bio
To Clint
The light of my life and my everything
“The Great Detective in Love” series is a finalist in the Chanticleer Mystery & Mayhem awards, Goethe Awards for Historical Fiction, International Book Awards, and Readers’ Choice Book Awards.
“A Sherlock tale with Hepburn and Tracy flair . . . It had the feel of a classic old Hollywood mismatched romantic comedy to me.... Hepburn and Tracy. It was charming and would really appeal to people who love the idea of a kind of Jane Austen meets Conan Doyle mash-up.” - RaynaRed, Audible reviewer
“Cumberbatch/Sherlock meets his match!” - Jan, Audible reviewer
“Sherlock in Mr. Darcy mode . . . “ - PandaRS, Audible reviewer
“Irene Adler has competition” - Mary, Audible reviewer
“A GREAT ROMP FOR A FUN TIME OUT!” – Amazon reviewer
“Very well done watch out Johnny Lee Miller and J. Brett and B. Cumberbatch and Robert Downey Jr., this is the real deal”
– Byron, Amazon reviewer
“A delightful female counter view to Sir Conan Doyle. An intelligent and fun read with just the right amount of Victorian sexual tension.” – Geof, Amazon reviewer
“Suzette has certainly captured Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s style. This is a very good read and would certainly make a very good movie! It was a real ‘page turner’.” – Charles, Amazon reviewer
“Loved the book and its premise! I enjoy the banter and charged atmosphere between Sherlock and his ‘detective in training’! There is a difference in their relationship that cannot be in any way compared to that with Watson. It is actually fun watching Holmes the instructor/trainer, fight his inner awakening more human feelings starting to develop from interest, to admiration to ? Please write on. I am thoroughly enjoying this series!” – Amazon reviewer
“I’m truly enjoying Suzette Hollingsworth’s The Great Detective In Love series. I love the actor for the audiobooks as well. . . She keeps the integrity of Sir Conan Doyle’s original characterization of Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson, while shaping a strong, confident, feminine, and loveable character in Miss Mirabella Hudson. The cases are dark and suspenseful enough without being stab-you-in-the-face scary, while providing scenes of well rounded characters. I hope she continues writing more, as they add a layer and depth to Sherlock Holmes that I’ve always wanted and hoped for with him. As a massive Sherlock Holmes fan, this series warms my heart, gets it racing, and makes it sing.”
– KF, Amazon reviewer
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion
Copyright © 2018 by Suzette Hollingsworth
ISBN: 978-0-9975-170-8-8
Cover Design by Fiona Jayde Media
Inside artwork by Clint Hollingsworth
First publication January 20, 2018
Happy Birthday, Shelly Tyler
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
Imprint: Historical Fiction/Mystery with romantic elements
PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
This is a work of historical fiction. As such, there are historical figures who actually lived contained within the pages of the book. The author has attempted to represent them honestly, but she has never met them in person and may have missed the mark. There are also fictional characters within the book who seem more real than historical figures, namely those created by Arthur Conan Doyle. For all that remains: names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed in U.S.A.
Published by Icicle Ridge Graphics
CHAPTER ONE
Without a Case
221B Baker Street
“Mr. Holmes, what has happened to the ice that was in the ice box? Our food will spoil without it.” Mirabella Hudson, chief bottle washer and female operative for the Great Detective, closed the metal chest so no more heat would enter into the food storage. The only thing keeping the contents cold was the ice, delivered twice per week, now strangely missing.
Mirabella sighed heavily, miffed at her own frustration. Not that long ago she had been locked in a tiger’s cage by a Russian spy. Now she was in search of missing ice. How mundane had her life become in such a short time?
Mirabella had long grown weary of her domestic duties. Even though there was invariably terror and risk where Sherlock’s cases were concerned, she found she became bored in their absence. She might not miss the threats on her life, but she, like her employer, did miss the mental stimulation. It was frightening how much she had in common with Sherlock.
“What? The ice? Hmmm. It’s in my bedroom,” Sherlock replied.
Isn’t it cold enough in there? Sherlock’s bedroom was a foreboding place she tended to avo
id due to the pictures of criminals lining the walls.
Perplexed, she glanced around the galley kitchen corner to face her esteemed employer, his raven black hair framing his face in loose curls, his expression composed but relentless even as his eyes remained focused on the Police Gazette.
“Why on earth is the ice in your bedroom?” she asked, moving into the living room in a state of confusion. No day with Sherlock Holmes was ever the same or without surprises, but, honestly, she couldn’t imagine what possible reason he would have to take the ice—or to move it into his boudoir.
“I needed it,” he said simply, not looking at her.
And Sherlock did not seem predisposed to tell her. He clearly thought this was all the information she required.
Mirabella had a different view of things. She planted herself before him. While she waited for an audience she surveyed her formidable employer. He wore a white silk ascot tie and a purple-blue velvet embossed vest on his muscular frame.
Quite handsome really. As opposed to his frightening intensity and unforeseeable, unstable behavior.
Sherlock’s lack of concern for the fact that absconding the kitchen supplies affected her duties was a touch annoying, to say the least. Mirabella appreciated her circumstances, to be sure, but working for Sherlock Holmes was, at best, disorienting, and, at worst, suicidal.
Looking past Sherlock to the wingback chair opposite his, she observed Dr. Watson napping in his chair. Prinnie, his bulldog, sat at the good doctor’s feet. Even sleeping, John Watson was immaculately dressed in a three-piece wool suit, his blonde streaked hair perfectly styled. He was dreamy awake—and certainly asleep.
Sleeping in the middle of the day. Everyone was blasé, it seemed to Mirabella. John Watson was the best-tempered of men and not one to require either stimulation or peace; in general, he was pleased with whatever came his way as long as his friends were with him. But even John needed something to do with a patient load of some twelve patients per week. Ambition was not among his many fine qualities.
The Afghanistan war had done that to him. And yet, John Watson had survived and thrived. That must speak to his character.
But back to her immediate problem of locating the ice. “For heaven’s sake, there isn’t another delivery until Thursday, and I don’t know how I’ll be able to preserve our groceries at this point.”
“Groceries are of little to no concern to me,” Sherlock muttered. “And I guarantee heaven has little to do with it.”
Mirabella sighed heavily. Honestly, what was she supposed to do? It was enough to attempt to find something to stimulate Sherlock’s appetite without his causing the spoilage of the food.
“Yes, I am quite aware of that, no one more so than myself,” she said. “But even a machine must have fuel. And if you don’t care about your own health, at least think of Dr. Watson.”
“Is it time for dinner?” John Watson stirred from his nap with the talk of food. Ever since his army days which had left him emaciated, attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as an assistant surgeon, John’s appetite had been commendable. It was not clear if a Jezail bullet from enemy lines, enteric fever, or the army food had almost killed him—certainly all had made an attempt. His orderly, Murray, had thrown the doctor across a pack horse in enemy fire and saved him from the first of these assaults, but John thereafter dined on hospital food at the Peshawar Hospital, reversing his orderly’s efforts.
“This evening will be your last meal for a few days, Dr. Watson, unless I am able to locate the ice.” She returned her gaze to Sherlock. “May I have the ice back, Mr. Holmes?”
“I wouldn’t advise it,” Sherlock scanned the Gazette, still not meeting her eyes.
“Oh, and why is that?”
He glanced up at her, his expression one of indifference. “Go then, and get the ice from my bedroom, if that is what you wish, Miss Hudson.”
John momentarily closed his eyes again, clearly unconcerned with the insanity that was Sherlock Holmes.
“Grrrrr! ZZZ-Zzzz.” Prinnie, a Bulldog quite obviously bred from a Mastiff, continued snoring, but intermittently there was now growling, probably as he detected Sherlock’s voice, even in his slumber.
Believe me, I share your viewpoint, Prinnie. Mirabella moved from Sherlock’s laboratory and past the sitting room to Sherlock’s sleeping quarters—on those rare occasions when he slept. How anyone could find the images of one’s enemies conducive to sleep was a mystery to her. Clearly Sherlock didn’t, as evidenced by his playing the violin at 3:00 a.m.
There were many challenges to working for Sherlock Holmes. For one thing, he only utilized her on the cases so dangerous no one else was stupid enough to take them. The Great Detective was a master of disguise, but even he could not play every female role.
And where would he find someone else so lacking in intelligence and self-preservation instincts that she would throw herself into every manner of danger? As well as cook his meals and keep his laboratory organized?
Enter one Mirabella Hudson, who had already lost one position when she came to the Great Detective. Her employment was precarious at best.
And it means the world to me. She was working for the world’s finest detective. Sherlock Holmes was a young detective, true, but quickly making a name for himself. If he could only hold his tongue and cease making enemies with the powers that be at Scotland Yard. But Sherlock was not one to feign admiration where none existed nor to alter his course in the pursuit of truth.
As she opened the door to Sherlock’s room, she encountered an odd smell. He had obviously been burning incense in here, a practice he had picked up on a recent trip to the Orient, but that didn’t account for the essence of pungence meeting her nose.
“AEEeeee!” she screamed, as she beheld the contents of the room. Quickly she exited and slammed the door shut.
“What? Hello?” Dr. Watson exclaimed, fully coming out of his nap.
“Miss Hudson, if you could manage your histrionics, we would all be more comfortable,” Sherlock said.
“I would be more comfortable if there weren’t a corpse in your bedroom.”
“First you interrupted my reading of the paper, and now you have awoken Watson.” Sherlock shook his head gravely as if she were the one to have committed an uncivilized faux pas when he had a corpse in his bedroom.
“Why is there a dead body in your room, Mr. Holmes?”
“Where else should I put it, Miss Belle? You don’t suppose I would put a cadaver in the sitting room or the kitchen, do you?”
“Yes I do. I can very well imagine you would.”
“Then I’ve proved you wrong, Miss Hudson.” Sherlock muttered under his breath, “We are not barbarians here.”
Dr. John Watson and I aren’t. “And why is there ice on the body?”
Sherlock stared at her in disbelief, as if he had overestimated her intelligence. “The ice is keeping the body cold.”
“Obviously.” She placed her hands on her waist as she re-entered the sitting room.
“Then why did you ask?” He raised one eyebrow at her. “Please go about your business and do not waste my time further.”
“Mr. Holmes,” she repeated. “Why is our ice—all the ice—on the dead body in your room?”
He shook his head in annoyance. “I can see I must spell this out for the unscientific and lazy of mind.” He knew very well the pursuit of science was her dream and that he had called both her competence and devotion into question. Sherlock was not one to soften his remarks where he might offend.
I wish to keep this job. I must hold my tongue.
Where else could a young lady find employment which was not factory work, changing the chamber pot, or being a scullery maid? All of which involved twelve hour shifts, six days a week, for very little pay? As well as having one’s every waking hour and behavior monitored?
She glanced at the bedroom door. Surely this position is better?
“Please do so, sir.”
“I
f it concerns your duties, Miss Hudson—which it does not, recall that I do not answer to you but the other way around—I intend to determine the degree to which ice slows the decaying process.” He returned her stare, disappointment apparent in his eyes. “Surely that must be evident. I do not believe in speculation but in science. Speculation only serves to produce theories that must then be tested.”
“Hello! There’s a dead body in your bedroom, Holmes?” Dr. Watson asked.
“Naturally there is,” said Mirabella. “I wondered where the missing table had gone. I don’t know why I troubled myself.”
“Nor do I.” Sherlock shrugged.
“Why is there a cadaver in your bedroom, Holmes?” asked Dr. Watson.
“I only just explained that, Watson.” Sherlock replied, snapping his newspaper, clearly exasperated with having to explain that which he presumed to be evident. “To further the study of forensic science.”
“Ah, yes. To determine the time of the murder.” Watson nodded his head in understanding, even as his expression remained disturbed.
“Precisely. If we can accurately know the time of death, we can eliminate the suspects who have alibis and could not have performed the murder—as well as point directly to the murderer. There can be no conclusions without a concise timetable.”
“Who would have thought the study of forensics would provide so much information?” Watson added.
“And that it would be so close to one’s kitchen?” Mirabella shuddered.
“As you are well aware, Watson, Scotland Yard has little to no interest in the subject of forensics, and so I must undertake it myself.”
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