In other words, no one who would care about anyone in trouble.
London was not known for its empathy towards the destitute. There were so many unfortunates that one became hardened to it. In fact, it was now the fashion to go “slumming”: a social night out at the slums observing those living in impoverished conditions for amusement. This was the state of the world: an inability to enter into the feelings of others and laughing at their suffering.
She needed to make haste. Still, she couldn’t ignore the children. They were shoeless, wearing rags with dirt smudges on too much visible skin, and thin.
“Hello there,” she called to the children. “Don’t be afraid. I have your dinner.” She pulled a slice of bread and cheese out of her pocket, stored in the event she needed nourishment while on her errands. Once they saw the food, they moved forward. She could see the frenzied hunger in their eyes.
Mirabella tore the bread in half and gave a piece to each of the children, a boy and a girl, at arm’s length. They immediately retreated but kept their eyes on her. She reached in her bag for a coin. She saved every tuppence for her dream of going to university, but the sight of these two, not more than six, broke her heart. “Here. Around the corner is a Salvation Army. This will buy you a coffin bed for the night which you can share.”
The boy reached forward to take the coin and they both ran. She didn’t know what they would use it for.
Survival, no doubt.
“The Reverend T.B. Stephenson on Bonner Road has a children’s home for orphan and destitute children,” she called after them.
They are too young to know how to care for themselves. But Mirabella knew she wouldn’t be able to catch them—or to hold them if she could.
Probably the delay hadn’t helped her. Mirabella resumed heading west on Marylebone Road and had not yet reached Baker Street when she heard footsteps behind her. She increased her pace. The steps picked up behind her.
While still moving, she glanced back to see a wide, muscular man, well-dressed, with pressed trousers, a flat cap, and a silk scarf around his neck. He certainly didn’t look like a street thug. But there could be no question he was on her trail.
Why on earth am I being followed?
Being a modern woman and a one-time performer in the Parisian Circus—wearing tights and a form fitting skirt above her knees, no less—Mirabella sometimes dressed in a manner which would scandalize her curate father. For that which she had felt ashamed she now felt grateful.
Her Aunt Martha had said just this morning she looked like a dance hall girl. To be sure, there was a large white flounce at the bottom of her pale green dress. Completely inappropriate. But the most scandalous element of all was that the skirt was short—not quite reaching her ankles. Of course, her boots covered her ankles, but it was considered risqué to have one’s skirt above the ankles regardless.
And thankful she was for those boots, allowing for movement. For heaven’s sake, she was now officially a convert to the Sherlock Holmes’ School of Fashion, something she never thought to say. Between corsets, form-fitting dresses, slippers, and floor length clothing, movement was in short supply among the ladies of her time.
In an instant, she was relieved of all guilt. Sometimes it was more important to stay alive than to be thought proper: she was able to move without tripping on her dress. She might be covered from head-to-ankle, but she did have freedom of movement, unlike her contemporaries of the female sex.
“Why are you following me?” she yelled back.
No answer.
“Answer me at once!” she demanded. But the assailant didn’t respond; he only moved in her direction.
Mirabella’s heartbeat was increasing. She knew she couldn’t keep up this pace. Even if she broke out into a run, the man would be in a position of strength, coming up from behind her. She needed to face him rather than having her back to him. And her hands were full of packages, which put her at a disadvantage.
Mirabella saw an alley but didn’t dare duck in there, completely out of sight. She might be country bred, but she had learned that city dwellers were accustomed to ignoring the plight of the poor and unfortunate—even victims of violence. She wouldn’t give her pursuer the advantage of an alley or herself the disadvantage of being caged.
Turning to face him, she dropped her packages on a nearby bench. She moved behind the bench so at least a structure was between them.
But not far enough for a pistol or a blade to miss its mark.
Fear gripped her being, which she prayed might be exchanged for her anger. So far the fear was winning.
I may go to meet my Maker, but not without a fight. Quickly she reached inside her reticule for her Marlin.
The man moved towards her, but she had her pistol ready, a no. 32 Marlin pocket revolver. She gripped the ivory handle, which was smooth, in contrast to the silver embellishments on the barrel of the gun. “Why are you following me?”
“Na reason, miss.” He moved forward, but she kept the bench between them. “Just keepin’ an eye on you. A lady all alone shouldn’t be out at night.”
He reached up to the rim of his hat, a flat cap overshadowing his eyes, where his fingers pulled out a razor. “It ‘ood be a shame if something were to cut that pretty face.”
“Leave me at once!” she commanded, pointing her gun at him. “You’re up to no good, and I’ve no need for an escort, as you can see.”
“No need to throw a wobbly, is there?” His smile was even more terrifying than his stern frown. It was the smile of anticipation common to predators, to those who enjoyed overpowering a weaker prey. She might be relatively new to the underbelly of London, but she had learned to recognize evil during her one year in Sherlock’s employ.
I had wished there might be more years to come.
“It’s not safe on the streets after dark y’know. A lady might meet her death out ‘ere.” His voice was deep and bone chilling. He was mentally preparing her to be the victim. This she knew from Sherlock’s training.
Not this girl. She shivered. Not if I have anything to say to it. Her heart was beating in terror even as her mind insisted she must not let this good-for-nothing put a period to her existence.
But no one was good-for-nothing. No one.
No, Father, not now. The voice of her curate papa came at the most inopportune times.
That was the problem. Because she loved Jesus, she loved all His children, and she didn’t see this man as irredeemable. She didn’t see anyone that way.
Even as her would-be attacker with obvious ill intent cornered her around the bench she saw him as wounded and beaten down by life.
Everyone is born good. It is life that turns them dark.
He turned the razor in his hand, one angle and then the other. Life had done a pretty good job with this one.
Stop it, girl! Stop sympathizing with the beast or how will you save yourself?
“I told you to move on, sir,” she repeated, mustering all the forcefulness she could. “What type of man are you to threaten a lady?”
“This type.” He put the razor back in the rim of his cap and pulled an eight-inch blade from his pocket.
Heaven help me. I’ll soon be the wounded one. At this time the voice of Sherlock Holmes would do her considerably more good than the compassionate voice of her upbringing. Sherlock had been working with her to insure that she had both the physical and emotional skills to protect herself and others. To stay alive.
But I hear nothing. Sherlock never ceased correcting her. Now that she could use his advice the air was empty.
Her attacker was only six feet from her—close enough to throw the blade and to hit her. Who would strike first, him or her? It was a game of Russian roulette.
The only time she was truly motivated to fight was when she was protecting someone else—and she was having difficulty summoning the necessary fury.
The moonlight hit the glistening blade and it suddenly became easier.
Play to win, girl! D
o not allow the spread of evil or it will overtake all that is good. Finally, she heard Sherlock in her head, triggered by the weapon.
The blade of his knife was aimed towards her throat. This monster did not have a quick death in mind for her. He might have some redeemable feature in God’s eyes, but that wouldn’t stop him from murdering her in cold blood.
She felt her anger rising.
“Your time has run out sir.” Her courage summoned, she clicked the revolver of her gun. “How dare you attack me in this manner. Why were you following me?” she repeated, pointing her gun at his heart. “Who sent you?”
He kept a close distance between them, the sharp blade glistening as it caught a flicker of the fading light. “I don’t think you’re goin’ to kill me.”
Mirabella kept the gun pointed at his heart, as Sherlock had taught her. Hopefully this indicated to the criminal she both had the skill to do damage and meant to do so.
At least the first is true.
“Tell me who sent you or I will kill you,” she commanded.
Truly, I need to resolve this inner struggle in advance of a man coming at me with a knife. There is never time for hesitation or reflection in a battle.
“You shouldn’t have gone nosing into what wasn’t your business. Bloody wench.”
“Nosing into what? I have no idea what you are talking about.” She searched her memory, but only one event came to mind. She had done little else outside of housekeeping—with the occasional cadaver thrown in—for the past few weeks. “You don’t mean The Madame’s Apothecary?”
He moved forward, lifting his arm as if to throw the knife at her body. That was a fairly strong confirmation she had hit the mark. Let’s hope he didn’t hit his. He muttered, “I hate busybody females.”
Heaven help me! I wish I had told Sherlock my suspicions about Evie. What with the commotion around Mr. Denzil’s death and Sherlock being in such a foul mood, there hadn’t been time. Now, if I die, no one will know.
Bang! She shot the Marlin.
As she shot the pistol, she was instantly transported back in time, reliving the moment she had killed another.
I know nothing of the family he left behind. Perhaps there were even children. She sobbed, the emotion of her present danger combining with her grief over murdering someone she didn’t know committed to a cause she didn’t understand.
I must not let the past interfere with my present functioning. Then, as now, the man will kill you if permitted. Then, as now, he is a murderer of innocents.
“Aeeee!” Her attacker wailed in pain, even as his knife dropped to the pavement.
He turned and ran, clutching his bloody hand.
He was right. She hadn’t had any intention of killing him. At the last moment she had moved the pistol and only shot his hand.
Now this man is free to kill again. How many lives had he already taken? One? Two? Or more?
No matter what I do, I feel guilt. If she killed a man, she felt terrible. If she let a murderer go free, she felt terrible.
Her hand shaking, she reached down and carefully picked up the knife with her handkerchief in order to preserve the fingerprints, dropping the blade in with her packages.
I am horrible at this detective work.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Predictable Unpredictability
“Murder and torture must have a higher purpose”
- Moriarty,“Sherlock Holmes and the Chocolate Menace”
Still shaking, Mirabella arrived at the Baker Street flat in one piece, as surprised as she was grateful.
Stepping in the door, the scene before her was in stark contrast to her emotional state. Sherlock exemplified domestic tranquility sitting by the fire smoking his pipe. He was reading The Illustrated London News, a cup of tea on the marble end table beside him.
Mirabella made every effort to hide her turmoil, not wanting her inner landscape to become public, above all with Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock glanced up at her, and in an instant his aloofness turned to alarm. And, it seemed to her, disapproval. “You’ve been assaulted, Miss Belle.”
Apparently I have not suffered enough today.
Mirabella felt her hands trembling as she looked at him. When Sherlock’s gaze met hers, she knew what was coming in spite of her efforts; she had witnessed it too many times to expect anything else.
I truly am not in the mood for Sherlock to see straight into my soul.
“It is utterly impossible that you should know this, Mr. Holmes.”
“Clearly it isn’t.” Setting his pipe and newspaper down, almost knocking over his teacup with uncharacteristic clumsiness, he rose quickly from his chair and hurried towards her.
“I took care to be certain my hair was in place and my clothing smoothed so that you wouldn’t notice any change.”
“Attempting to fool me and succeeding at it are a world apart, it seems. But that is unimportant now.” His voice was suddenly gentle.
Then Sherlock did the unprecedented: he assisted her with her packages before moving to procure a sherry for her. “Sit down and have a cordial while you regain your composure, Miss Hudson.”
“I am quite composed, I assure you.”
“Sit down.” His actions were kind but his voice was firm, developing a hard edge. “Tell me who attacked you.”
She bit her lip. As many times as she had seen Sherlock in action, she never got used to it. It was some small consolation that she was not alone in that.
“How did you know I had been attacked, Mr. Holmes? Was it my unsteady hands?” Although she was frustrated, she seated herself in Dr. Watson’s chair, unable to keep her eyes from tearing up. She gladly took the sherry when it was offered.
“No. Although that observation supported my initial theory.”
“Then how did you know?”
“Never mind how I know. There are more essential points to discuss. I can see you are still in one piece. Am I correct in assuming you are unharmed?” His demeanor was calm and resolute, but his pale grey eyes had turned smoky, fully focused on her.
“For the most part.”
He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as he returned to be seated in the fireside chair across from hers. “Then there is no need to enlighten me on that subject.”
She shook her head in frustration at his blasé reaction to her near death. “I shall not waste your time then, Mr. Holmes, with a description of my terrifying attack.”
“Not at this time.”
“And what, pray tell, is the more important point?”
“I should say it is the unfortunate circumstance that your assailant is still alive and well. Give me a description of the blackguard without further delay, Miss Hudson.”
Her jaw dropped. “How could you have ascertained . . ?” What she intended to be a sip of sherry was more like a gulp. “You can’t possibly know that my pursuer is unscathed.”
“I didn’t say he was unscathed. I said he is alive.” Sherlock’s demeanor was emotionless. He always took everything for what it was, without emotion. And yet his tone was threatening. There was a dark side to Sherlock, a dangerous side. It was difficult to invoke Sherlock’s wrath—he didn’t care enough about anyone else’s opinion to be concerned—but once he counted someone as his enemy, it was not a safe place to be.
“You can’t know that either.”
“And yet I do.”
She stared at the half-empty sherry, wondering if it would be unladylike to refill the glass.
Of course it would. She rose and filled the glass to the rim. It is a small glass after all.
“Can you identify the person who attempted to harm you, Miss Belle?” Remarkably, he didn’t comment on the sherry. Sherlock Holmes always offered an unsolicited editorial on everything no matter how minute or seemingly insignificant.
“No.” She returned to her seat. “He was large. Wide, that is. Of average height. Not quite as tall as you, Mr. Holmes.”
“How much shorter? Be specifi
c.”
“Only one to two inches.”
“I wish you might be more specific, Miss Belle,” Sherlock insisted impatiently.
“I do apologize. I didn’t have a ruler with me.” Pardon me, could you put down your eight-inch blade while I take your measurements?
“And what else?” Sherlock demanded.
She searched her memory, as uncomfortable as it was, even as she returned to her seat. “He wore a hat which covered some of his face. Except for his disturbing smile. He had rather large lips.”
“Good.” He nodded, as if he were committing her description to memory and drawing a composite in his brain. No doubt he was. “What type of hat?”
“It was a flat cap.”
“And his clothing? Was he well dressed?”
“Yes.” She gasped. “How did you? . . . Never mind.” She grew weary of wondering how Sherlock knew the things he knew. Her head ached as it was. “That was the strange part about it. I hadn’t really thought about it until now. He was exceptionally well dressed. His trousers were pressed and he even wore a silk scarf. He didn’t look like a ruffian at all. But he was, the worst kind.”
“Ah. And was he a Brummie?”
“From Birmingham? Oh, yes, I . . . I guess you are right, Mr. Holmes. He did speak with a Birmingham accent. Mr. Holmes, you’re frightening me.”
“Not as much as the Brummie did, I expect.” Sherlock’s expression was so hard it was rather frightening, exaggerated by his features: prominent chin, piercing stare, strong cheekbones, high forehead generally graced with dark curls, and a resonating voice perfect for reciting poetry or being on the English stage.
Sherlock’s voice dropped, almost inaudible. “Did your attacker have a razor in his cap, Miss Belle?”
Her jaw dropped. “He did. How could you know this?”
“The vile beast is a Peaky Blinder.”
“A what?”
“A member of the Peaky Blinder gang, so called because of the flat caps they wear, hiding razors, typically used to slash the faces of their victims.” He rung his hands, something she had never seen him do before. “What sets them apart from numerous other street gangs is their dashing style of dress.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 13