“I do wish.”
“Only consider, though. You asked me to stop playing my violin at three in the morning which is the method I utilize to allow myself to sleep. It is at your door.”
“And yet you have apparently both taken my laudanum and are still playing your violin at all hours of the night, Holmes.”
“I only said you asked me to stop playing. I didn’t say I complied.”
Seeing that he was wasting his breath, Dr. Watson turned to Mirabella, now entering from the kitchen. “Could you, Miss Mirabella, go to the pharmacy?”
“Of course,” Mirabella said.
“If it would not be too much trouble.”
“It is no trouble at all,” Mirabella smiled sweetly.
She was a dear girl. He had thought at one time they might be a match, but they were not suited.
She never tired of activity. Miss Mirabella was far too ambitious and intellectual for him—too much like Holmes.
John had yet to meet the woman who could keep his interest.
***
John’s kind eyes met hers, and Mirabella found herself happy to do it. Studying the young doctor, so handsome with his athlete’s physique and blond-streaked hair, Mirabella imagined that, even as an old man, John Watson’s turquoise eyes would shine like the sun on the Mediterranean.
But now he seemed as if there were a storm raging on the waters.
John turned to look at Sherlock and those eyes turned glacial. “Except under extreme duress, laudanum should not be taken on a regular basis.”
“I am under extreme duress,” Sherlock objected. “The case is not yet solved.”
“Perhaps I shall pick up some frankincense as well for Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella suggested.
“Frankincense?” Dr. Watson inquired.
“If it was good enough for Jesus, I presume it should suffice for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And,” she added, “it aids in relaxation.”
“Ah, your herbalist mother.”
She caught the twinkle in Sherlock’s eye before she headed for the door. For one who was so forthright and direct, he had a repertoire of subtle expressions one could miss if one were not observant.
Mirabella soon arrived at The Madame’s Apothecary, almost a mile walk from the flat on Baker Street. At times a bit too far too walk, depending on the time of day and the packages one carried, but too short a distance for a cab. Many ladies would not think so, but she had no objection to exercise.
“Read all about it in the Strand!”
“Hello, Jeffrey.” She smiled at the paper boy. She made a point to know everyone. Sherlock did the same. Though not social by nature, he emphasized the importance of contacts and was subsequently able to function in every social strata. Quite remarkable actually.
As she walked she heard the whistle of policemen, the ringing of a carriage bell, and the Westminster clock chiming. She found the clippity-clop of horses’ hooves hitting the cobblestone pavement soothing, unlike the two cabbies yelling at each other from opposite sides of the street.
The Madame’s Apothecary was owned by a Mr. Fairclough, who must surely be a wonderful man. She had heard it said the pharmacist had saved people from the workhouse—and that these paupers were even living on Mr. Fairclough’s property. This was Jesus’ work, surely.
She sighed happily as she approached the pharmacy door. For one interested in both science and medicine, the apothecary was a fascinating place to be. A doctor was unaffordable to most, so the sick sought medical advice from the pharmacist, who often was the local surgeon and dentist as well as the bloodletter.
The apothecary was a community center of sorts. Outside of the parish church, there was no place more central to the neighborhood.
Mirabella tilted her chin in greeting to one of the female workers inside, someone she had not seen before. There were two ladies stocking the shelves and a woman was even behind the counter handling the pharmaceuticals, herbs, and tonics. A woman could not be awarded a medical or law degree in Britain, but ‘pharmacist’ was one of the few professions open to women.
Which didn’t mean anyone was required to hire them; Mirabella was under no delusions. It was Mr. Fairclough’s shop and he was under no obligation to hire ladies, particularly since the vast majority of both men and women still trusted a male pharmacist over his female counterpart.
“Hello, I’m Mirabella Hudson.” The wooden floor creaked under her steps as she reached the mahogany counter.
“Miss Hudson.” A tall brunette with unusually dark eyes curtseyed, and she seemed troubled. She didn’t take Mirabella’s hint to introduce herself.
“And your name is?”
“Evie.”
“Are you alright, Evie?”
“I’m fine, Miss. I must return to my work.”
Goodness, the new lady was jumpy. It was obvious that keeping this job was paramount to Evie. She must be happy in her employment. This spoke well of Mr. Fairclough as a kind man.
And yet—was he? Fairclough had supplied Sherlock with his cocaine. It might be legal, but she nonetheless found it difficult to forgive the supplier.
Mirabella moved to the counter. “Hello, Mr. Fairclough.”
“Miss Hudson. And how may I help you?”
“I need some laudanum for Dr. Watson.” She forced herself to say it. “And valerian root and frankincense, please.” Having a country mother well versed in herbal remedies, she was not without her own bag of tricks.
And she wasn’t alone in that. Lining the shelves behind Mr. Fairclough was every manner of herbs, powders, tonics, drugs, candies, glass jars, ornamental labels, and colored liquids.
Some of the products were excellent—and some were not legitimate cures, she knew from her mother. She could see liver pills claiming to cure malaria, Holloway (gout and rheumatism), golden seal, scutellaria, and cactus grandiflorus green. “Dr. Batty’s Asthma Cigarettes” were visible, claiming to treat asthma, hay fever, foul breath, all diseases of the throat, head colds, canker sores, and bronchial irritations. There was a disclaimer on Dr. Batty’s that they were not recommended for children under six.
Mr. Fairclough poured the contents from a large jar into a small brown bottle: a tincture of opium containing approximately 10 percent powdered opium by weight: the laudanum she requested.
“And will that be all, Miss Hudson?” Mr. Fairclough smiled at her, his grin a bit too toothy.
Mirabella glanced up to see Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, a medicine for children and infants that she knew to contain morphine. There were at least ten similar products used to quiet babies, the most popular being Godfrey’s Cordial, consisting of opium, treacle, water, and spices.
“Nothing else, thank you.” She bit her tongue but it did no good: her curiosity overcame her. “Do you sell much of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup and Godfrey’s Cordial?”
“We do.” He studied her inquisitively.
“I was raised in the country. Such things are rarely used.”
“Probably because country folk can’t afford them.”
“I personally don’t think opium and morphine are good for babies. Both are narcotics, and if infants are in a continual drugged state they will not be hungry—and could become malnourished.” She held his gaze. “I see the same in Mr. Holmes, who has the smallest of appetites.”
“You might very well have a point, Miss Hudson. I never use opium myself. But we do live in a country that values freedom for every citizen.”
“Babies who are forced to take a narcotic are not given freedom,” she said softly.
“If I don’t carry it and other pharmacists do, I will go out of business.”
“Perhaps. But everyone looks up to you. If you spoke out against it as unhealthy, no doubt many would listen to you.”
He studied her with interest. “You are quite free with your opinions, Miss Hudson.”
“So are many men, but that is not remarked upon.”
His smile broadened, something she didn’t think w
as possible. “I do like independent thinking in a woman. As a matter of fact, I didn’t give any of those syrups to my daughter. I never wished her to be quiet—and yet she always was. Speaking of which, have you met my daughter, Florence?” Mr. Fairclough motioned to the lady assisting him behind the counter, a tall, thin brunette with an aloof manner.
“Hello, Miss Fairclough.” Florence had dark hair and eyes, pale skin, and was not particularly pretty in appearance or manner, at least in a conventionally feminine way. Perhaps that came from her general demeanor and cold stare, however. She was rather long-faced with a square jaw which added to the severity of her look. She did have lovely teeth, however.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Hudson,” she said abruptly in a low, protected voice. And with that Florence spun round and returned to the back room. Mirabella was taken aback, but perhaps Florence was shy rather than aloof. Sometimes the distinction was a difficult one.
Mr. Fairclough whispered, “I apologize for Florence. She recently lost her fiancé and it has been a trying time for her.” He shook his head.
“I’m so sorry. And, yet, how wonderful that she has you—and employment. I envy all professional women.”
“Florence is certainly devoted to her work. That’s all she does.” He frowned.
“And might I say I think it is wonderful you hire so many ladies here, Mr. Fairclough, in situations they would not otherwise have.” Even were she able to earn a degree in science, it was unlikely she would be able to find employment in medicine unless she were able to open her own pharmacy or become a nurse.
The truth be told, under Sherlock Holmes’ employ she had more interaction with bodies—albeit dead—than did most practicing surgeons. She had more interaction with corpses than did most zombie hunters. And, if she were honest with herself, she was more interested in research than in practicing medicine anyway.
“The ladies never give me any trouble. It is only the men who disappoint me.” He looked down momentarily before his smile returned. “Do you enjoy your employment with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“I do.” She found herself responding to his friendly manner. And she wasn’t the only one; she looked about at the women who were cleaning, dusting, and stocking the shelves. They were hard workers all. And they looked to appreciate their situation. Perhaps a bit too much in awe of Mr. Fairclough, but that was to be expected.
Something strikes me as odd, however.
“You and I have done business, Miss Hudson, but actually never spoken at any length,” Mr. Fairclough said.
“I suppose that is true.”
“Terrible thing about Lord Percival’s murder.”
“Oh, you heard about that?”
“Naturally. He was a client.” He handed her the package. “Shall I put it on Mr. Holmes’ account?”
“Yes, please.”
Fairclough cleared his throat. “I do have a question which occurs to me now.”
“Oh?”
“I heard Sherlock Holmes mention an older brother,” Mr. Fairclough said nonchalantly. “I have recently learned that Mycroft Holmes is a person of note.”
Mirabella couldn’t imagine Sherlock making small talk with anyone, and certainly not mentioning his brother to someone who had no connection to him. “I suppose he is.”
“Have you met him?” Mr. Fairclough asked, his lips suddenly pursed.
“We have crossed paths on occasion,” she said. “In a professional capacity, you understand.”
“And what is your opinion of the esteemed older brother?” The corners of Mr. Fairclough’s lips turned down, as if he were disapproving.
She was a bit taken aback, but his manner was so cordial that she saw no reason not to reply. Naturally she would say nothing that wouldn’t be generally known. “Gentlemanly, polite, delightful, intelligent—I should say wonderful on every level. The British government can’t function without him, you know.”
“Oh, I daresay it could. And do you hear much about the Diogenes Club, Miss Hudson?”
“What should I hear?” She really had no idea what he meant.
“I have a particular interest to join such an esteemed academic club. I understand the collection of periodicals is impressive.”
“And what is your interest, sir?”
“Anything pertaining to science. Discoveries on the horizon are fascinating, are they not? Blood types are a particular interest of mine, most relevant to amputations and even dental work. And,” he smiled, “There is a good deal of money to be had in it. No one knows why certain bloods are compatible—and others are not.”
“It is a subject with enormous implications. As regards the periodicals, you would have to speak to Mr. Mycroft Holmes yourself on that matter.”
“Have you done any reading on blood compatibility, Miss Hudson?”
“Yes, but there is not much to be read on the subject. No one knows.”
“Some speculate compatibility is based on the purity of the soul.”
“I find it unlikely that there is a match based on goodness. Otherwise, all good people would be healthy and all evil people ill. And you certainly know that not to be true.”
He appeared to be considering her words, but it was a strange conversation to begin with.
“Besides,” she added. “Who is to say whose soul is pure and whose is not?”
“There are certain reckonings.”
What a strange choice of words.
Fairclough tapped his fingers on the counter. “The first blood transfusion was from a sheep into a fifteen-year-old boy who was thought to be mad. It was hypothesized that the blood of the gentle lamb might quiet the boy’s agitation.”
“And did it work?” she asked pointedly.
“I don’t believe it cured the boy’s madness. But it didn’t kill him either.”
“Returning the boy to the state he was in prior to the experiment cannot be deemed a success.”
“Possibly not. Or perhaps such a small quantity of blood was utilized that the results cannot be deemed conclusive.” He flashed that eerie smile at her again. “I understand that it can be difficult to obtain a private audience with Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”
Not at all. He is remarkably approachable.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised, he is an influential man who travels in high circles.” She replied matter-of-factly, but her manner was purposely stand-offish, feeling that the inquiries were intrusive.
“I meant no offense. All are aware of his . . . influence.”
She nodded noncommittally.
“One hears of the intellectual clubs in London and might wish to be a member. That is the extent of my interest.”
“I know nothing of membership, Mr. Fairclough, nor have I ever been, obviously, since the membership is all male.” She took her package. “Thank you.”
As she turned on her heel, she realized what had struck her as peculiar.
It was their teeth.
They all had beautiful teeth. How strange that all these ladies from the workhouse should have such lovely teeth. Either there was an incredible run of luck in the genetic pool, or these were all dentures. People who came from the workhouse could not afford dentures. She volunteered at Lady Graham’s orphanage, so she knew how unusual it was for the poor and malnourished to have good teeth.
She turned to face him again and added softly, “It is so kind of you to give these ladies a position and a place to live.”
He smiled. “Some take issue with it, but it is necessary to do what one can to improve the world.”
“It is,” she agreed. “And how nice that you have given all these ladies dentures. It must have been terribly expensive.”
“It is training for Florence, so there is some personal benefit to it. If she is to someday take over the pharmacy, naturally she must be able to perform dentistry as well. Florence has a great heart for the ladies, you understand.”
“But no dentures for the men?”
He frowned initially but instantly fo
rced a smile. “I do all that.”
“Ah, I see.” But she didn’t see, not at all.
“If that is all then?” Suddenly he was the one in a hurry. He tapped his fingers on the counter a tiny bit louder than she felt was necessary.
She glanced in the corner to see Evie, a sturdy brunette, busying herself, as if she were uncomfortable with Mirabella’s presence. “I’ve not seen that that young lady before. Is she new?”
“Yes, Evie just arrived from the workhouse. All her family lives on my property, including her children. She’s had a terrible run of bad luck.”
“That is most unfortunate.” Mirabella pretended to recollect a conversation. “Could that be Evie Kitchens?” She was nothing if not bold. Or perhaps she had observed Sherlock one too many times.
Mirabella heard something drop and looked over to see Evie’s hands shaking.
“Pick it up, Evie. Go in the back.” Mr. Fairclough frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. He returned his gaze to Mirabella, correcting her. “Evie Travers.”
But Mirabella was pretty certain she had hit the mark. Her words had clearly upset Evie. “Oh, yes, that is right.”
His gaze fixated upon her, his expression suddenly dark. “‘Kitchens’ is nothing like ‘Travers’, Miss Hudson.”
“Certainly not. I have no idea where I heard that name, I am much about town. Good day, Mr. Fairclough.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Love Potion
“You can never be overdressed or overeducated” – Oscar Wilde
“Do you think it is safe to go out in public, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella asked as Mycroft entered the flat.
“Because there is a vampire on the loose?” Mycroft’s pale grey eyes added a softness to masculine features. A lock of black hair fell onto his forehead as he feigned a bow, acknowledging her even before turning to the gentlemen present. It was a rare gesture among Sherlock Holmes’ guests—or society at large, for that matter.
It struck her once again how alike—and how different—the brothers were. Sherlock’s resemblance to Mycroft was uncanny, but the elder brother was taller and more attentive to his appearance—unless it was a disguise and then Sherlock had the winning hand. Sherlock was more muscular, but one wouldn’t know it from Mycroft’s superb tailoring. And Mycroft had a much more appealing manner: he was debonair and sophisticated, words unlikely to be attached to Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 11