Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “I suggest that you ask her yourself.”

  The constable swallowed hard, knowing very well he did not warrant an audience with Queen Victoria. Just as Sherlock knew that Mycroft had not consulted her. But he likely could. Still, it was a bit of a bluff. Mycroft was here because Percy was his friend.

  “And what can Sherlock Holmes bring to this? He solved a jewel robbery, to be sure, his methods are interesting, parlor tricks as it were, but they have no place here.” It was obvious the police constable thought Mycroft did little actual real work—and that Sherlock’s contributions were overrated as well.

  In truth, Sherlock was painfully aware that he was a young detective on precarious ground with very few cases under his belt, some of them on foreign soil, top secret and not known to the general public.

  “Actually my esteemed brother recently solved a case of international significance in Paris, but I am not at liberty to discuss it with the city police,” Mycroft retorted haughtily.

  “Let’s all see what we can come up with, shall we?” Sherlock said. “This is a difficult case and we might be of some assistance.”

  Athelney’s expression was disturbed. “It is that.”

  “I am sure Her Majesty would be grateful,” Mycroft added.

  “I suppose there’s no harm,” Athelney muttered.

  “And what have you learned, Police Constable?” Mycroft asked politely.

  “Mr. Longstaff came back early from his night out,” Constable Jones interjected. “He had intended to return to his room upstairs unseen when he suspected something was not right.”

  “And why did you return early?” Sherlock repeated the question.

  “Why? Oh, I . . . I made a ridiculous mistake and forgot my handkerchief.”

  Mycroft raised his eyebrows, his opinion clearly not improved. He would sooner have forgotten his purse than his handkerchief.

  “What struck you as untowards upon your return, Mr. Longstaff, that you looked in upon your master?” Sherlock asked.

  The gentleman’s butler patted his forehead with a cloth he pulled out of his pocket, noticeably sweating even though it was a cool evening. “I didn’t hear any sounds. No talking, no laughing . . . nothing.”

  “And that struck you as odd?” Dr. Watson asked.

  “Yes, for this household.” Mr. Longstaff colored slightly. “So I tip-toed around the corner, merely to insure the master was all right, mind you, when I saw the body lying on the floor.”

  “And yet you didn’t send for the police,” Athelney pronounced with suspicion. “It was one of your neighbors what did so, seeing strange comings and goings.”

  “I had barely returned from the theatre when the police arrived.” Suddenly emotion overtook Mr. Longstaff, as if he were attempting not to cry.

  “Control yourself, my good man,” Mycroft said. In truth, only a substandard butler would exhibit such an unprofessional demeanor.

  Perhaps Mr. Longstaff was particularly attached to his master. Interesting.

  Or he was attempting to divert attention from himself as a suspect.

  Mycroft motioned to one of his underlings. “Procure a sherry for Mr. Longstaff.”

  Athelney motioned with his head to the couch, indicating the butler was to be seated for now.

  Once Longstaff had his sherry, Sherlock approached him. “I notice you have a touch of the northern brogue—almost undetectable.” As I expect is your intent.

  Longstaff’s eyes opened wide, as if the discovery surprised him. “I’ve spent some time in the north country.”

  “In manual labor?”

  Longstaff almost dropped his sherry. He downed it in one gulp. “For a short time.”

  Sherlock expected Longstaff’s stint as a butler was of the shorter duration.

  “How did you know, sir?” Longstaff asked, shaken.

  “You have a slight limp. As if you’re recovering from an injury.”

  “I’ve found being a gentleman’s butler I’m less inclined to injury.”

  “The same is not true for your master unfortunately.” Sherlock made the attempt to appear sympathetic. “And you’ve been in a workhouse, Mr. Longstaff.”

  “Have you been checking up on me?” The butler was suddenly alarmed.

  Sherlock wasn’t sure the gentleman could handle anymore shock. “Certainly not. No more than I have observed since meeting you.”

  “Holmes, this is most alarming,” Dr. Watson exclaimed as he looked up from studying the body, his voice shaken.

  “What is it, Watson?” Sherlock moved towards Lord Percival.

  “The body has indeed been drained of blood.”

  “As I told you at the flat, my good doctor,” Mycroft reiterated, surprisingly dispassionate. Mycroft was socially engaging, but he was not lacking in sentiment nor in animation. One might call his brother lazy but never unemotional. Mycroft had the unique distinction of being both slothful and radiant.

  “Deuce it all,” muttered Constable Jones. “I’ve never seen anything to match it.”

  Turning to glance in Mr. Longstaff’s direction, Sherlock saw something else that gave him pause: the butler was wearing red plaid gaiters under his trousers, an odd clothing choice. Was this the article of clothing he typically wore to differentiate himself from gentlemen?

  Or was it to protect his shoes and clothing from blood? He also noticed the butler had unusually narrow feet. Sherlock was in the habit of observing all details, many of which he discarded, some of which he later recalled.

  “And that is not all,” Watson’s expression was disturbed. Having served in the battlefields of Afghanistan, he was not one to be queasy. “His neck has the marks of . . . fangs.”

  Sherlock bent down to observe the neck. “They appear to be the teeth of a wolf.”

  “Large, sharp teeth is all I might have observed,” Watson said.

  “Smaller than a tiger or a lion—you will recall I have seen both marks in the Parisian Circus—and larger than a dog.”

  “We must determine the cause of death. What killed his lordship?” Dr. Watson muttered to himself, as if he was at a loss to know where to begin.

  “It is obvious what killed Lord Percival,” Athelney Jones exclaimed. “He has no blood.”

  Cough! The constable turned to the butler, now seated, who looked as if his complexion had been drained of all color as well.

  “Who was the last person to see your master, Longstaff?” Athelney asked.

  “It was . . .” Longstaff cleared his throat.

  “Spit it out man,” Athelney commanded.

  “His lordship’s dinner guest was quite unusual, even for this establishment.”

  “Who was it, Longstaff?” The constable spoke through barred teeth.

  “I haven’t the faintest, sir.”

  “Now look here, if you think you’re going to mess about with me, you have another thing coming.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of messing with you or with anyone, Constable.”

  “Did you meet the guest at the door?”

  “I did,” Mr. Longstaff said.

  “But you can’t identify him?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Excuse me, Constable. Perhaps I can help.” Sherlock interjected, turning to the butler. “Was the guest dressed in a costume?”

  “He was.”

  “And what was the costume?” Sherlock pressed.

  Longstaff waved his hands as if this would help the words escape his mouth. “He was dressed as a . . .”

  “Get on with it, Longstaff,” Constable Jones commanded.

  “Lord Percival’s visitor was dressed as a vampire.”

  A collective gasp filled the room.

  “A vampire? As in the penny dreadfuls?” The words escaped from Belle’s mouth, followed by covering her mouth with her hands. She had been instructed not to interfere with the investigation upon threat of being banned from the case. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. One diva was enough.

  Sherlock forced hims
elf not to smile, something he never had the slightest difficulty with except in Mirabella Hudson’s presence.

  Subterfuge was necessary, however. He didn’t wish Belle to think he approved of her outburst, although it secretly amused him. Despite her being raised by a curate, he could always count on Belle to speak when other young misses of the day would either contain their tongues or faint, following the expectation for both their gender and their ages.

  Belle was refreshingly unpretentious: remarkably mature in many ways, but she managed to maintain a youthful genuineness, curiosity, and straightforwardness he found appealing.

  Even her dress did not match the style of the day. She wore a simple wool suit—a skirt and jacket—somewhat masculine in cut, which Miss Belle could never be with her shapely hourglass figure. Her shiny chestnut brown hair and her light brown eyes, almost golden in appearance, gave her both a professional and a softly feminine demeanor.

  Sherlock stopped his train of thought abruptly, his private thoughts disturbing to him. It wasn’t the thing for a career man. This cannot be.

  “Varney the Vampire, The Feast of Blood,” Mycroft repeated, his eyebrows knitting together as he glanced at the remains of the dinner table. A melancholy crossed over his expression as he added, “A vampire who despises his condition but is nonetheless a slave to it.”

  “There was no vampire,” Sherlock said.

  “There was something,” Athelney countered, motioning his head to the lifeless body on the floor.

  Dr. Watson shook his head in perplexity, his voice subdued. “These are not human teeth.”

  “And the only man to have entered the building, as described by Mr. Longstaff, was a vampire,” repeated Athelney.

  “Shall we say ‘A man dressed as a vampire’?” Sherlock posed. “Please be so good as to recall Mr. Longstaff’s exact words, Police Constable.”

  “Dammit, Holmes! How do you explain those teeth marks?” the constable said as he focused his attention as Dr. Watson directed.

  “I don’t. Not yet. The question is, how was the blood drained, and was Lord Percy already dead when the draining of the blood was initiated?”

  “Not a vampire?” Mr. Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard cleared his throat, his face ashen white. “Naturally it wasn’t.” The constable answered his own question, talking to himself as he was wont to do. “But, as Dr. Watson said, those marks were not made with human teeth.”

  “You don’t suppose it to be a vampire who sucked the blood from our deceased do you, Constable?” Sherlock focused his full attention on Jones.

  “Why, no, I . . . of course, I . . . What has drained the blood, then?” Jones sputtered.

  “Ah, that is the question isn’t it?” Sherlock asked. “And no marks to the head, are there Watson?”

  “No other injuries of any kind that I can see. No blows to the body, no major bruising, nothing. Except the teeth marks on the neck.”

  “No wounds. No place for the body to lose the blood.” Athelney shook his head.

  Sherlock returned to his knees to examine the body and, in particular, the mangled neck. “Did you notice this, Watson?”

  “Well, of course I did, I just said—”

  “I’m not referring to the animal teeth, which could certainly distract from that which I now draw your attention to—no doubt the intent of the fangs.”

  “The intent. What madness are you spouting, Mr. ’Olmes?” Police Constable Jones exclaimed. “So a werewolf was commissioned to distract from other marks on the body?”

  “Not a werewolf, a vampire,” Mycroft corrected. “According to our only witness.”

  Mr. Longstaff protested. “I wasn’t here when the murder took place, I can’t even say with a certainty who the murderer was. I can only report on the last guest I admitted: a man dressed as a vampire.” He shuddered, glancing towards the body. “That is to say, I thought it was merely a costume, until I came across this scene.”

  The constable turned his attention to the butler. He drawled, “Didn’t it surprise you to see a vampire come to the door, Mr. Longstaff?”

  “To be quite honest . . . No.”

  “And why not?” Athelney demanded.

  “I suppose I . . . given Lord Percival’s predilections . . .”

  “His predilections? What do you mean?” Athelney demanded.

  Longstaff cleared his throat. “Lord Percival had any number of interesting visitors.”

  “For God’s sake, man, stop speaking in vague generalizations! What do you mean by ‘interesting’?”

  “Men dressed in costumes came to the door on various occasions.”

  “Male prostitutes, then,” Constable Jones pronounced.

  “I couldn’t say, sir.” But it was obvious this was precisely the meaning intended.

  “Let me direct your attention to the actual evidence, Constable, and away from speculation,” Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing.

  “What are you talking about then, Mr. ’Olmes?” Athelney’s manner was a combination of impatience and apprehension. “What do you see?”

  “Ah, I see it now,” Watson murmured, still crouched over the body. “There is a circle inside the fang marks, in the shape of a human mouth. Perhaps it is . . .” he cleared his throat “the result of love-making.”

  “That’s a strange type of love making,” Constable Jones muttered.

  “Agreed. I don’t believe love has anything to do with it,” Mycroft said from his seat on the couch, feeling no need to study the evidence for himself, which he left to his capable brother. His was to analyze the data once collected.

  “And there’s more, Watson. The circle interests me—a little too perfect for a human mouth—but there is something of even greater interest.” He motioned to Mirabella, curious to learn if she would see what he saw. “Miss Belle, come see if you can discern this. Sometimes the young with their sharp eyesight are more observant.”

  Mirabella moved closer, dropping to her knees almost instantly as Dr. Watson made room for her. “Heavens!”

  “Do you see it, Miss Belle?” Sherlock looked up. The girl was ordinarily quite perceptive and he wished to learn if she could look past the horror of the scene and observe.

  “Are you speaking of the tiny prick in the center of the circle?”

  “I am.”

  “I don’t fathom how you can see anything amidst all these wounds and blood,” Athelney muttered.

  “We amateurs are particularly interested in the details,” Sherlock explained. “Having nothing of any real importance to do.”

  “That’s a fact,” Athelney muttered. His failures in no way diminished his high opinion of himself. Likewise, the successes of others did nothing to increase his opinion of them. “You can’t see the forest for the trees, and that what’s wrong with you, Mr. ’Olmes. All the time missing the point. Yes, yes, I admit it was very clever how you solved that jewelry heist, but this is serious business.”

  “I assure you, Constable Jones, the solution is always in the fine points.” Sherlock took care not to reveal his amusement even though Athelney was a constant source, even in these grim circumstances. He waved to the mangled corpse below them, blood still evident on the neck. “As for the injuries, in the absence of a physical blow to the body, that only leaves poison.”

  “There have been cases of a victim being frightened into a heart attack,” Dr. Watson said. “Certainly a vampire could fill that bill.”

  “A widow’s curse upon you both.” Athelney Jones looked as if steam might come out of his ears at any minute. “That makes no sense. Frightened to death? Maybe, but Lordy, we have fangs! This is the most gruesome murder scene I’ve seen in some time.” He pulled on his navy jacket. “Poison indeed.”

  “Precisely the point, my good man. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to create a macabre scene here.” Sherlock shook his head.

  “Your theories are all well and good when there ain’t no skilled personnel about, Mr. ’Olmes, but let us deal with the fac
ts here, if you would be so good. You’re saying this is all staged?” the constable demanded.

  “To a degree,” Sherlock said. “Not entirely.”

  “Let me remind you that our plan is to become less obtuse instead of more.” Athelney huffed.

  “Only consider, Constable. What if the killer wished to make it look like a vampire murder, thus putting us off the scent?” Mycroft asked.

  “If that were his intent, he did a fine job,” Athelney grumbled.

  “Indeed. If it were a poisoning, where would we naturally look?” Sherlock asked.

  “To the cook,” Mirabella suggested.

  “Then why drain the blood?” Athelney demanded.

  “Perhaps the killer wanted the blood.” Sherlock began to pace the room.

  “Poppycock!” Police Constable Jones exclaimed.

  “I must consider all the possibilities.”

  Constable Jones shuddered. “Wanted the blood? What kind of idiocy are you sputtering Mr. ’Olmes? Why?”

  “My dear constable, this is far from idiocy,” Dr. Watson said. “There is an enormous amount of money in cadavers, did you not know? I believe we will someday look at this era as the dawn of medicine. Medical schools are so desirous of bodies that there are those unscrupulous fellows who cut out the middle man, so to speak, and murder someone in order to sell the body.”

  “Egad, man. The body is still here. It’s the blood we are missing,” Constable Jones said.

  “He has a point,” Mycroft agreed, adding “It has the feel of the Old Testament: the blood of one who is pure might redeem the impure. As in communion.”

  “We all know there ain’t nothing pure in this room,” Athelney objected.

  “Communion is based on a supreme act of love and the forgiveness of sins,” Mirabella said softly.

  “There’s a lot to forgive here,” Athelney muttered.

  Sherlock appeared deep in thought. “The reference to religion and the concept of purity may be relevant.”

  Mirabella cleared her throat. “The talk of communion sparks a new idea. Perhaps the draining of the blood had nothing to do with the blood.”