Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  Sherlock’s female ideal was Irene Adler, a stage actress and a master of disguise and deceit who had outsmarted him, taking matters into her own hands that she might secure her own future. Her duplicity and superiority had far from repelled him. It had quite the opposite effect, increasing his respect for Miss Adler.

  Mirabella shook her head. No, she didn’t think Sherlock disrespected women so much as he disrespected almost everyone. Outside of himself, that is. Besides, Sherlock disapproved of the woman created by a chauvinistic society. The woman who was the product of an equal society he did not—could not—know.

  “I don’t agree, Professor.” Mirabella shook her head. “Mr. Holmes is decidedly unemotional—particularly where I am concerned. And he has always desired my success and education.”

  “You don’t think Holmes wishes to suppress or control you, Miss Hudson?” He smirked, as if she were living in an illusionary world.

  “Certainly not,” she replied with all the indignation she could muster.

  “How admirable that you should hold your employer in such high esteem. But I assure you, my dear, Sherlock Holmes feels intensely threatened by your success—and what it might mean for his relationship to you. Those in power always fear a change in the status quo.”

  You should know, Professor.

  “Mr. Holmes has sound reasons for any opinion he holds,” she replied indignantly. “He doesn’t come to any conclusions lightly, and his distrust is well-founded—without any basis in emotion.”

  “It all begs the question, Miss Hudson. You are fully aware Holmes would disapprove of your being here.” The smile he had subdued now expressed itself fully. “And yet, here you are.”

  “As you see.” Everything was a competition for the professor. Everything.

  And yet, even one’s enemy’s failings could be used to one’s advantage. Sherlock had taught her that. She had every intention of using Moriarty’s flaws against him.

  “Do you not feel any guilt for being here, Miss Hudson?” he pressed, writing equations on the chalkboard as he spoke.

  “Honestly, I don’t.” That, at least, was true. Whereas Sherlock would see her being here as a betrayal, she saw it as fulfilling her responsibility to him.

  “Excellent. And why is that?”

  “I don’t see that my personal feelings have anything to do with mathematics.” She motioned with her head to the blackboard. “I suggest we get to work. There are important matters at stake.”

  He chuckled. James Moriarty was not a person prone to smiles and laughter, but he was unusually jolly today.

  Theirs was a strange alliance. And somehow with every encounter she felt less and less afraid in his company. Perhaps that should concern her.

  “Indeed there are, Miss Hudson.” His countenance was suddenly foreboding.

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. If the truth be known, there was an element to the danger she loved. Otherwise, why would she work for Sherlock Holmes?

  To be here was a drug to her desire for knowledge, her true passion. But she also saw it as her opportunity to keep an eye on Moriarty in the interest of one Sherlock Holmes. She wouldn’t say she wished to impress Sherlock—that was a futile endeavor—but she did wish to do a good job for him. It was a strange fact that, in spite of his critical and demanding nature, the Great Detective inspired intense loyalty.

  “Although I must say I feel more fear in your presence than I do guilt, sir.”

  “Tsk! tsk! And why is that?” He appeared pleased with her response.

  “Probably because you once had me on the other end of a six-inch blade.”

  “Are you going to hold that one triviality against me forever, Miss Hudson?” He pulled on his neatly trimmed auburn beard. In an instant the amusement in his intelligent eyes turned dark and frightening despite their pale green, translucent color.

  “Of course. I would be an idiot not to.”

  “You are, above all things, Miss Hudson, not an idiot. You are a true scientist,” Moriarty curled his lip disdainfully. “Holmes is, essentially, not an academic but an investigator. Whereas he learns and catalogues every manner of cigar smoke as relates to the criminal, you wish to catalogue every manner of molecule, identifying the unseen and magnificent.”

  She knew very well Moriarty had a higher opinion of Sherlock Holmes’ comparative intelligence than he disclosed, the main reason he had not attempted to murder his arch foe in her estimation. The professor would find the world lonely—and unbearable—without a worthy adversary.

  The same reason she was now safe with Moriarty. As long as she had something to offer to his research, she was entirely safe. Initially he had wanted the Poincaré conjecture—and he still did—a solution that would bring him much fame. If she could solve it or appear to be making progress on solving it—many had spent a lifetime attempting to do so—she could buy herself time.

  As much as Moriarty lived for crime, he wanted scientific notoriety and prestige. And, much like Sherlock, the professor wished to discover the unknown.

  Moriarty was curious. But she feared his greed and addiction to power could potentially overcome his intellectual curiosity if allowed free reign.

  “Mr. Holmes is simply more interested in practical matters than in academia,” she said.

  “Holmes is an imbecile. He can’t even name the planets in the solar system.”

  “Because he has no need of them. They don’t pertain to his cases.” His work. His life.

  “Then you must work for me, Miss Hudson. Imagine what two minds such as ours might do in collaboration.”

  A point in Moriarty’s favor was that he held the key to her future dreams: a university degree. She wondered if this was how Jesus felt in the desert, being tempted by Satan.

  A part of me longs to say ‘yes’. To work with a mathematical genius would be pure bliss. The professor was almost as interested in mathematics as he was in his criminal empire. The workings of his own mind—and the pursuit of knowledge—was intoxicating to him.

  As for myself, I sometimes wonder if I have more in common with Moriarty than I do with Sherlock Holmes. To be sure, the professor and she were simpatico. Except for the fact that Moriarty was an evil genius and she was a country girl from Dumfriesshire.

  Except for that. Studying Moriarty in a three-piece plaid suit, she shuddered. Was she truly that boring?

  In reality there was nothing conventional about Moriarty. He was brilliant, complex, devious, manipulative, and, well, as she’d already admitted, wicked, without a moral compass and without boundaries. He only knew one thing: how to please James Moriarty.

  And yet, being a country curate’s daughter, she believed everyone was redeemable. But strangely enough, it wasn’t the Bible that she believed could save Moriarty.

  Her father would be mortified to hear her thoughts. She was herself. What has happened to me since I came to London?

  Sherlock Holmes that’s what. She was now keeping company with prostitutes and sodomites, along with insane detectives and mad, vile scientists.

  And now thinking there might be an answer other than the Bible?

  They were all pathways to the same goal, she now believed. The Bible was not the prize at the end of the journey. God was. The Holy Spirit was. A personal relationship with God.

  Telling the professor to read the holy book would be about as effective as telling him to sell everything he owned and give it to the poor. One had to start with a conduit that the recipient could receive.

  What then had the power to save Moriarty? Mathematics. A venue he embraced. It gave him an interest in something outside himself.

  Mathematics, for Moriarty, represented redemption.

  For some the connecting pathway to the Divine was the Bible. For some it was nature. For still others, it was music. Or love. Public service. Whatever it was that opened the door to the Divine: the passageway which enabled one to touch one’s Creator, to receive, to channel. Much like the painting on the c
eiling of the Sistine Chapel in Italy.

  Even the despicable Moriarty had the ability to channel the creative forces of the heavens—she had seen it. He simply channeled that ability for ill.

  “Have you solved the formula I sent with you, Miss Hudson?” the professor asked.

  “I have done some work on it.” She retrieved a piece of paper from her reticule and handed it to him. The formula was the price of admission, but she was careful not to give Moriarty anything that could be used to hurt others. As long as it was research which would merely increase his stature in the scientific community, such as the Poincaré conjecture, collaboration was worth being able to keep an eye on him.

  Though, granted, nothing was certain where Moriarty was concerned.

  He looked at the piece of paper and frowned. “X=V-E+F . . . where V is the vertices of the shape in question, E is the edges, and F is the number of faces in three dimensions.” He looked up at her, his eyes holding danger. “You already solved this for me. You must have more to offer if you wish to return.”

  “I w-will do better,” she stammered.

  “Let us hope so.” Moriarty turned towards a piece of equipment on his laboratory desk.

  “I see you have a thermopile.” She observed the device which converted thermal energy into electrical energy. It consisted of gas, a heat screen and a heat source. Or, more specifically, a brass tube, a vacuum pump, a galvanometer, and a manometer.

  “Yes, but I believe the thermopile is underutilized.”

  “In what way?” She’d best be careful, or curiosity would kill more than the cat.

  “What if, Miss Hudson, you could direct light to cut through steel?”

  All the alarms went off in her head. At the same time she was almost dizzy with eagerness. “Impossible. It sounds like a miracle, not science.”

  “What are the components of light?” He glanced toward the window where the light streamed in, falling on his chalkboard covered with complex formulas.

  She searched her memory. “Naturally the primary wavelengths are ultraviolet, visible, and infrared light.”

  “Ah, yes. And what about infrared light?”

  “It is . . . much hotter than visible light.” She knew where he was going with this line of reasoning, but it was utterly ridiculous. “But not hot enough for what you suggest—cutting metal, that is.”

  “So you say.” A smile formed on his lips. “How would you make it hotter?”

  “I don’t . . . know.”

  “Come now Miss Hudson.” His commanding frown inspired one to obey out of fear. She backed up a step.

  “What if infrared light were concentrated and focused?” he asked, even as the idea had occurred to her, though she dare not say anything.

  Oh my goodness. Could light then literally melt and evaporate steel?

  “From your expression, I see you follow me, Miss Hudson.” His eyes gleamed with the hope of unfathomable power.

  “Not at all. I simply can’t believe one could attain the temperatures you are suggesting.”

  She was torn between the intoxicating allure of the idea and her complete conviction that brainstorming with Moriarty on this matter was akin to introducing poison into the air.

  This is not a technology Moriarty should have. Thankfully he didn’t know how to concentrate the infrared light to the desired concentrations or he wouldn’t be discussing it with her.

  Moriarty was the master of manipulation. Perhaps I am truly out of my league.

  “And how is the color of light determined?” He moved from the thermopile to the blackboard.

  “By its wavelength. The shorter wavelengths are ultraviolet and the longer wavelengths are the infrared.” She found that she was talking rather quickly. The longer wavelengths were here of particular interest.

  “How is the smallest particle of light energy described?”

  “As a photon.”

  “What is the formula for the energy of a photon?”

  Easy. And harmless. Common knowledge. “It is equal to its frequency times Planck’s constant. So, the higher the frequency, the higher the energy—and the shorter the wavelength.”

  “As you know, Miss Hudson, as an excited atom returns to a lower energy state, it emits photons,” he continued, as if reading her mind.

  “Well, yes, whenever a charged particle gives up energy, electromagnetic radiation is emitted,” she said warily.

  He stared at her for a long while, a gleam in his pale green eyes reminding her of a winter river frozen over.

  “Fascinating. But that would mean . . . ” She considered his words. “In the right circumstances, as light passes through a substance, it could stimulate the emission of more light.” Mirabella knew he had already come to this conclusion himself, so there was no use in pretending, as much as she might wish to.

  “Precisely.” A sudden glow lit his eyes.

  “How do you think it could be done, Miss Hudson? Finding the right type of atom that could set this into motion: essentially cutting steel with light?”

  Nervous, she glanced out the window and caught her reflection.

  Mirrors.

  She felt a mixture of thrills and dread. If a cavity filled with photons of a particular wavelength were outfitted on both ends with mirrors, perhaps the reflection could initiate the desired reaction, causing the amplification of the wavelengths.

  “I have no idea.”

  “No ideas at all, Miss Hudson? I find that difficult to believe.”

  His demeanor was perfectly calm, but fury lay beneath the surface. He wanted something and she was refusing to give it to him.

  “This is very advanced, Professor Moriarty. You can’t expect me to solve a scientific mystery in a matter of seconds.”

  “You’re lying.” Moriarty frowned. “I can see by your expression that you do have an idea. I wouldn’t advise you to keep anything from me, Miss Hudson.”

  “My thoughts are my own. I don’t owe you anything Professor.”

  “There, there. No need to become indignant.”

  “I will not allow you to abuse me, Professor. You have no claim on me.”

  “Not yet.” His voice grew very soft. “But I can open doors for you, Miss Hudson. Not only can I procure admission to university for you, but I can gain entrance into programs where women are not allowed. In the past, women were so persecuted by the male students, in any of the scientific fields in particular, that they withdrew.”

  “Women can’t become doctors in Britain anyway.”

  “It would seem they can’t attend the classes either.”

  “I would never let ill-mannered hooligans intimidate me.”

  “So you think. Particularly those women who scored higher than their male counterparts were resented—and pushed out.” He smiled. “But I could make certain you are not bothered.”

  She released a deep breath as she envisioned the bodies of unruly male students turning up in the Thames.

  Mirabella knew the professor spoke the truth. He could get her into fields of study no woman had yet been allowed entrance to.

  And he could definitely protect her.

  Is it worth it? Should she choose personal glory over the fate of the world?

  I really have gone too far.

  Studying the professor, she felt precisely the way she had felt when she entered the tigers’ cage. “I will think about your equation. It is a complex problem requiring some thought.”

  “Let us be certain answers follow thought. Otherwise you are a waste of my time.” His voice grew deadly soft. “I generally dispose of that which I do not need.”

  She feigned indifference though inside she was shaking. “If the chair of a university mathematics department with a doctorate doesn’t know the solution, I don’t know why you would expect me to know, Professor.”

  His pale green eyes somehow turned the color of steel. “I expect you to know, Miss Hudson, because that’s why you are here. New . . . blood . . . as it were.” Now it was
his voice which was frozen—and threatening.

  “In the meantime, I have a question.” She was anxious to change the subject, and if someone were up to no good, Moriarty would know about it. “Are you familiar with a Mr. Fairclough?”

  “The pharmacist?” He suddenly became elusive. “And what is your interest in him?”

  “Does he travel in your circles?”

  “In academia?”

  “No,” she swallowed hard. “Is he involved in the criminal underworld?”

  “Certainly not. As I am not.” He smiled.

  One distinct difference between Sherlock and Moriarty was that Sherlock never lied to her. And Moriarty rarely did anything else.

  “However, Franklin Fairclough is a very charismatic person. Those people he has pulled out of the workhouses, they are a particular type of person as well.”

  “And what type is that?”

  “I have looked to Fairclough myself for some of my employees. I believe they would do anything for him. The depth of their gratitude is immense.”

  So Moriarty does have connections with Fairclough.

  The professor continued, “More significantly, the fear of living without Fairclough’s protection is far worse than anything he might ask them to do. He brings them to it slowly, of course.”

  There seemed to be an eerie similarity between the relationship he described and her own with Moriarty—or what it could become. She shivered.

  “What would he ask them to do?”

  “If you or I were commanded to do something we did not wish to do, we would laugh in the face of it, Miss Hudson.” He studied her with what seemed to be admiration. “Much as you just did with me. But these are people who are weak.”

  “Or who have been beaten down by life.”

  “As I said.”

  “I see.” She swallowed hard. “And do you know anything about their teeth, Professor?”

  His expression was one of incredulity. She was not accustomed to seeing Moriarty surprised. “What on earth do you mean, Miss Hudson?”

  “Those women who work in his pharmacy. They all have perfect teeth.”

  “Do they indeed?” A slow smile formed on his lips. “Very observant of you, Miss Hudson.”