Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

“But why was a different method used?” Athelney’s frustration was palpable. Mirabella began to feel sorry for him. He did wish to solve the murder, whatever anyone might say.

  “The murderer didn’t wish to taint the blood,” Sherlock said, realization suddenly alight in his eyes.

  “And he did when he murdered Lord Percival?”

  “Even vampires have a learning curve, Constable.” Mycroft shook his head.

  “Only recall how the men died, Constable,” Sherlock said.

  “How can I forget? What a holy show. Both Percival and Radcliffe have wolf bites on their necks, as well as a round pin prick. Mr. Denzil was killed in a less morbid way—that were a simple poisoning,” Athleney considered.

  “I doubt that Mr. Denzil would see it in that way,” Sherlock said. “Who was, in fact, killed by the same person. Just because the method was different does not necessarily infer it was a different murderer. Our so-called vampire was in a public place and had to work with the mother of necessity.”

  “It’s time for plain speakin’ now, Mr ’Olmes. Your hypothesizing has no place here.”

  “A piece of advice, if you please, Constable. Instead of looking to the Diogenes Club, I would look to Overton Bristow’s connections. You might be a practical man, Constable Jones, but in your obsession over sexual relations, you’re looking on the wrong side of the fence.”

  “Indeed. My dear Constable,” Mycroft moved to stand up. “Do get your mind out of the gutter and on the case.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Baker Street Irregulars

  “These youngsters go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too. All they want is organization.”

  - Sherlock Holmes,“A Study in Scarlet” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  Sherlock and Watson were still with Constable Jones while Mirabella returned to Baker Street to straighten the flat before retiring to bed. It had been a long day and she couldn’t wait for her head to hit the pillow. But working for Sherlock Holmes did not follow a schedule.

  Glancing at the clock she saw it was ten o’clock. Just as she had finished her chores there was an infernal banging on the door.

  She opened the door to see twelve-year-old Wiggins looking disheveled and dirty, and certainly wild-eyed.

  “We seen something!” Wiggins exclaimed. “Where is Mr. Sherlock ’Olmes?”

  “He isn’t here Mr. Wiggins,” Mirabella said, catching his excitement. “What have you seen?”

  The boy stared at her with distrust. “Mr. ’Olmes didn’t say I could tell a bird.”

  Mirabella chided herself not to take offense. To his credit, Mr. Wiggins could be trusted to follow his orders and to keep his mouth shut with the enemy.

  Unfortunately he seemed to think she was the enemy. Or, at least, all of womankind was. “You can tell me, Mr. Wiggins. I am his assistant.”

  “But you’re just a gull. You can’t be his assistant.” Wiggins eyed her suspiciously. “Anyways, Dr. Watson is his assistant.”

  “Certainly not. Dr. Watson is his colleague. I am Mr. Holmes’ assistant.”

  “Yes, I sees. An assistant is less important than a colleague, and you are a girl so you are less important. That makes sense.”

  “And yet an assistant is entitled to information.”

  Wiggins eyed her with suspicion. “Now you’re trying to trick me.”

  “I certainly am not,” she replied indignantly. “Mr. Holmes has more than one assistant, as well you should know. Aren’t you his trusted assistant?”

  “I am.” Wiggins grinned proudly.

  “Just so. And I am Mr. Holmes’ female operative.” She raised her chin. “The world’s first lady detective. Didn’t he tell you?” She had not been raised to toot her own horn, but it was a man’s world, and sometimes it was the only way to wade through the mire and facilitate a solution.

  Wiggins shook his head.

  “I advise you to ask Mr. Holmes the next time you see him.”

  “I’d like to see him now!”

  “He isn’t here.” She motioned about the flat. “You can see that for yourself.”

  Wiggins looked at her suspiciously, as if she might be hiding the great man. One who had committed the unforgivable sin of being born female was capable of any transgression, after all.

  “As you see, Mr. Wiggins, you have no option but to relay the information to me. I will pass it on when Mr. Holmes arrives, I assure you, even if it be in the middle of the night.”

  “Naw. I ain’t telling no one but Mr. ’Olmes.”

  “Very well, Mr. Wiggins.” She saw it was useless: Wiggins’ principles were incorruptible. “You had best wait here then.”

  Mirabella glanced about, attempting to formulate a plan. Her eyes moved to the last of the fire burning in the fireplace, the violin in the corner, the Persian slipper and calabash pipe next to Sherlock’s wingback chair, past the laboratory jars drying on the rack, the beakers, chemicals, clamps, cylinders, microscope, and filtration systems, to Dr. Watson’s desk decidedly neater than Sherlock’s, and finally to the chair in the bow window.

  I am so tired I cannot think. Her mind drew a blank.

  Her eyes perceived an apple in the fruit bowl, which had also caught Wiggins’ eye, she noted. Sherlock had taught her to take in every detail, and this gave her an idea. “As long as you’re waiting for Mr. Holmes, would you like a piece of bread and cheese? And perhaps a slice of roast beef?”

  “I sure would!” He brushed his overlong brown hair out of his eyes. His clothes might be raggedy and too small, but his face was surprisingly clean. Suddenly his smile turned to a frown. “But I ain’t tellin’ you nothing, miss. Not wif’out Mr. ’Olmes.”

  “Absolutely not. I don’t imagine for a moment that you would.” She looked back over her shoulder at him as she headed to the galley kitchen. “Mr. Holmes would never forgive me if I didn’t treat you like the valuable operative you are.”

  “Sure, that’s right. You listen to the guv’nor!”

  Mirabella quickly made a plate of bread, cheese, and cold roast beef which Wiggins ate with a gusto to rival the hogs on her family farm in Dumfriesshire. She had thought she could at least keep the boy here until Sherlock returned, but if Wiggins continued eating at this breakneck speed, she might run out of food first.

  “Would you like a slice of apple pie, Mr. Wiggins?” She brought out a beautiful piece of apple pastry, its golden crust glistening in the candlelight.

  “Indeed I would, Miss.”

  “And I’ll give it to you if you convey the message to me.”

  “I said I won’t.”

  “I’m so sorry, I forgot. I guess it shall have to be mine then.” She picked up a fork and took a bite of the apple pastry, closing her eyes in blissful rapture. She moved her fork towards the pie again. “Someone has to eat it.”

  “Wait! Stop!” This was apparently more than even this paragon of honor could endure. He swallowed hard, his eyes never wavering from the pie. “I suppose it wouldn’t be no harm. As long as you promises to tell Mr. ’Olmes, miss.”

  “I most certainly do. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

  “We saw a man in a black cape and a tall black hat leavin’ the Diogenes Club only an hour ago.”

  “I’m sure there are lots of men who fit that description leaving the Diogenes.”

  “Yeah, but is they carrying a large container and in the company of one what looked to be Longstaff?”

  She almost dropped the piece of pie, which Wiggins was quick to remove from her clutches, with the lightning fast responses of a pickpocket of admirable dexterity. Considering his speed, she was surprised he didn’t break the Mandalay blue china dish holding the pie.

  “How do you know what Mr. Longstaff looks like?”

  He shook his head in grave disapproval. “It’s me job to know. I staked out the house right after Lord Percy’s murder.”

  “Yes, of course,” she nodded. “You saw him at nine o’clo
ck?” That would have been right after the murder.

  “Yep. That’s right. I ‘eard the chimes then: nine o’clock. I whistled for Tipton—I do a good nightingale, you know—we followed the two until they caught a carriage waitin’ for ‘em, but we ran and kept up wif’ them. Then I came here.”

  “You kept up with a carriage the entire way?” she asked, disbelieving.

  “It weren’t far,” he said, shoveling pie into his mouth. “And I have boots.”

  “Where did the man in the cape leave the Diogenes?”

  “Through the side door. On the east side ‘o the building.”

  Oh my goodness.

  “How large was the package?” she asked, pouring him a glass of milk, which he happily took.

  “Ah, it was a container, what so big.” He stopped eating momentarily to make a motion with his hand. “It weren’t small.”

  Approximately four liters. The blood. He was carrying Radcliffe’s blood. She felt suddenly nauseous, placing her hand on her mouth.

  I must control my impulses while Wiggins is talking.

  “This is very important, Mr. Wiggins. Where did the carriage go?”

  “The Madame’s Apothecary.”

  She fell into the chair beside him, suddenly feeling she might faint.

  “It was dark, and the caped man—I’m sure it was the vampire—went in a door in the back. You know, they’se can see in the dark, unlike us. They wouldn’t be out in the light. And the only way to kill them is with a stake through the heart.”

  “I can see that you have studied the subject. How do you know the caped man was a vampire? Could you see his face?”

  “No, it was mostly hidden by his hat, but I’m sure it was. He walked all creepy like.”

  “And the vampire—was it a man or a woman?”

  “A man.”

  “Are you certain? You’re not letting your assumptions make you see what you think you should see?”

  “Phttt! He was a tall and skinny. But powerful, you know.”

  “But might the cape have hidden curves?”

  He blushed momentarily. Wiggins might be a street urchin but he knew proper manners and what was expected of a gentleman. His lips formed an ‘O’, even as he finished the last bite of pie. “He had a long, angular nose and a square jaw.”

  “And did you see anyone meet the vampire at the door, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “Nope. It was just Longstaff and the vampire.”

  “Did you hear their voices?”

  “The vampire’s voice was shrill; I thought he was mad.”

  “Did they leave the large container at the apothecary?”

  “Nope.”

  “No?” How strange. “He took it with him?”

  Wiggins’ fork paused in mid-air, his face suddenly contorted as he pondered the question. “The carriage waitin’ by the door took the container.”

  Mirabella tapped her finger on the table. Where could they be taking the blood?

  “And did you follow the vampire into the apothecary?”

  “No, too dangerous.” He stared at her with surprise in his eyes. “He might suddenly decide to turn into a bat and reach out and bite us.”

  She appreciated the very real danger these young lads had been in—and their bravery. “He is a treacherous man. Mr. Holmes greatly appreciates your courage.”

  “We wuz’ scared, and that’s a fact.”

  “And neither Longstaff nor the vampire—they didn’t see you?” She felt some fear for the child.

  Wiggins shook his head vehemently. “I don’t want to have fangs in my throat and me blood drained! We wuz careful.”

  “That is very wise, Mr. Wiggins.” She procured two guineas for him and Tom. “You are irreplaceable and we would be most grieved to see anything happen to you.”

  “So would I.” He took the last bite of pie and swallowed it with the same gusto he had his first. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he added, “The funny thing was that Longstaff went with the vampire into the apothecary. I wouldn’t do that, would you? And then there was a fight. We could hear it. Not smart to fight with a vampire in my opinion.”

  “Could you make out what they were saying?”

  “Most definitely, miss. They was speakin’ loud, and we moved closer to the window so as to hear.”

  She leaned forward. “And what did you hear?”

  “The man who looked to be Longstaff said he wanted to quit. But the vampire wouldn’t let him.” He looked puzzled. “If Longstaff is a vampire too, isn’t that like quitting being dead? I didn’t know there was that much choice in the matter. Now a witch, she could quit, by not casting her spells. But a vampire, he’s got to have blood—”

  “And what did the vampire say to Longstaff’s request, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “He said they had to clean up the city, that the devil was loose. I sure hope there ain’t a vampire and a devil loose.”

  “Are you sure that’s what they said?” she asked anxiously. “That you’re not embellishing the story?”

  “I never do. Almost never. Mr. Sherlock ’Olmes says what I ‘ave a photographic memory.” He smiled proudly. “Like him.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then the vampire said, ‘Give it time. You haven’t killed enough.’” Wiggins shuddered. “And then Longstaff started sobbing. I didn’t know vampires in training did that.”

  “And when did the vampire leave?”

  Mr. Wiggins shook his head. “He didn’t. But I figured I’d better come here and tell Mr. ’Olmes about it.”

  “Did Longstaff leave?” she asked anxiously.

  “Not what we saw.”

  She jumped up out of her chair, reaching for a pencil and note pad. “Can you go with me, Mr. Wiggins? I need to return to the apothecary and I need protection.”

  Wiggins studied her for a long moment. “I can go wif’ you, miss.”

  His estimation of her had obviously increased. At least a little. “Shall I get some o’ the other boys?”

  “There isn’t time, Mr. Wiggins.” Quickly she dashed off a note for Sherlock, leaving it in front of the brandy decanter, where he was sure to see it.

  She headed for the door, grabbing her coat and the reticule that held her pistol, with her young protector close on her heels.

  I hope we make it in time.

  Or do I?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  On Their Own

  “I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon the right scent—a kind of thrill in your nerves.” - Detective Tobias Gregson,“A Study in Scarlet” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  Mirabella hailed a hansom cab. The cabbie frowned at the sight of Wiggins. The boy was grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of riding in a hired cab—probably the first time in his life he had ever done so— despite the fact he might be riding to his death.

  Mirabella placed a sixpence in the cabbie’s hand. Ordinarily one would not pay at the start of a journey, but she wished to show that a young lady and a street urchin were good for the fare.

  “Wha’ yew lookin’ at, mister?” Wiggins demanded of the cabbie. “She paid ya’. And we’re workin’ for Mr. Sherlock ’Olmes.”

  “Don’ mean nothin’ to me,” the cabbie retorted.

  “It will.” Wiggins’ expression was smug. “There’ll be a day when everyone has heard his name.”

  “We must make haste, Mr. Wiggins.” Mirabella shoo-ed Wiggins into the carriage, even though she agreed with his sentiment.

  The boy let out an earsplitting whistle as he entered the cab, clearly delighted at his new found status.

  “Let us keep our mind on the danger before us, Mr. Wiggins,” Mirabella said as they sat down. Her heart was racing as she clutched the reticule containing her pistol, hoping against hope they would make it in time.

  And that they wouldn’t.

  “Ah, I’m used to it. There ain’t a minute of the day I ain’t in danger.” He kept his eyes glued to the window as i
f the sight before him was completely new. And it was, from the perspective of a cushioned seat. Apparently Wiggins’ expressed fear of vampires was experiencing a momentary hiatus as he luxuriated in the cab.

  He laughed suddenly, revealing that one of his front teeth was missing. “Ain’t we just a fine lord and lady, Miss Mirabella?”

  Glancing at her companion, she fought the urge to hug him. She didn’t wish to put an end to their new found camaraderie.

  She wished with all her heart that Wiggins would make it to adulthood. If he did, he would be an outstanding member of society—if he didn’t already have a police record—and one who would sincerely appreciate any good fortune that came his way. She felt her frustration rising. Of all the young people she’d ever met, Wiggins should have an education. He was such a bright young man.

  “Indeed we are.” She glanced at his feet. “Apparently your new shoes are comfortable, Mr. Wiggins?”

  Wiggins nodded. “Yeah. And they is warmer, but they’se also a bit stiff.”

  “Do they not fit?”

  “Oh, they fit a’right. I seem to be able to run a bit faster—if I don’t fall that is. I’ve tripped and fell more than once.” His expression grew somber. “That can be the difference between landing in the slammer or not, you know.”

  “Well at least you’re not as likely to land in glass—or horse manure. I expect that you’re simply not used to the boots, and anything new has an adjustment period, even if it’s for the better.”

  He considered her words, never one to believe anything he had not evaluated for himself. “I guess you’re right about that, miss.”

  This was a considerable compliment coming from Wiggins. She had observed that those who had abusive parents, or no parents at all, had a great distrust of all authority figures. They learned from an early age to trust only in themselves. It made for a capable person, but an unusually stubborn individual.

  “No doubt you will run even faster in time.” She patted his knee.

  “Do you think so, miss?”

  “I do. Are you wearing your new wool socks? It is getting cold.”