Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “Gosh yes, I hates to be cold.”

  “And besides not exposing yourself to lacerations, wearing shoes is more sanitary.”

  “Sanitary?” He laughed. “What do I care about that?”

  “You want to avoid cutting your feet as that can lead to infection. You’ll care if you catch pneumonia and die of some bacteria-laden disease.”

  Wiggins grew strangely silent for a boy who rarely stopped talking.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nuffin.”

  “Something is wrong. Please tell me.”

  “That’s what me parents died of.”

  What an idiot I was to speak without thinking. When will I ever learn? Mirabella’s heart fell in her chest. “Of pneumonia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you sayin’ they might have lived if they had had shoes?”

  “It’s possible.” What a startling realization that something so small might have stood between life and death. “But, of course, I can’t know. Only the Almighty can know that.”

  He looked at his feet. “How much did these shoes cost?”

  “About ten shillings.” It was darkly disturbing that they had just put a price on the lives of this child’s parents.

  “Ten shillings!” he exclaimed. “I know a bricklayer who only makes six shillings per week.” He said this as if it were a small fortune. And indeed it was to him. He whistled under his breath, “Only two weeks wages for a life.”

  Wiggins had a sudden change in his attitude towards his boots, admiring them as if they were a religious artifact—or a magical talisman. “I knows about starvation. But I never thought boots could save a man’s life. Me own ma and pa.” He added softly, “Those what matters most in the world to me.”

  “Though I won’t downplay the value of shoes—and warmth—it’s most likely the pneumonia germs were airborne and had very little to do with their shoes,” she said. Unless the cold added to the problem.

  Mirabella looked out the window to see an old woman hovering about a gas lamp, which gave off a small amount of heat as well as light.

  London was indeed well lit. There were any number of other cabbies on the road. There always were in London, people going to the theatre, opera, men’s clubs, lectures, or concerts—and their hansom cab moved easily in and out between the fancier carriages with a sturdy mare pulling them all. The sound of the wooden wheels hit the brick cobblestone street, the normally comforting cadence having turned to an ominous foreboding in her mind.

  “What’s air borne?” Wiggins asked after a few moments’ reflection.

  “Transmitted in the air,” she said. “Or the bacteria could have been in the water. Germ theory is a new study, so not much is known about it.”

  “What do you have to be to know about bacterias and germies? A doctor?”

  “That or a scientist.”

  “Whatever it was, they died because they didn’t have money,” he muttered.

  “That’s a very dangerous way to think,” Mirabella said softly. “It allows a darkness into your heart.”

  “I’m not goin’ to pretend somethin’ true ain’t true.”

  “Certainly not. Quite right.” She paused to take care with her words, which Mirabella rarely did, but her words could dramatically shape the greatest wound this child would ever bear. “But it’s a treacherous game to think ‘if this happened, then this would happen.’”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can turn your soul black over something you can’t possibly know or control.”

  He scoffed. “You mean there’s a plan we don’t know about. Where God wants the rich to live and the poor to die.”

  “You see, with that attitude you’ll end up miserable and bitter, and possibly even in jail, Mr. Wiggins. But, yes, some people think it’s all predetermined.”

  “You mean that we have no say?” His jaw was suddenly firm. “I don’t believe it. I believe I makes me own fortune. And I ’ave eleven boys what depend on me.”

  “Of course you do. That’s the attitude. You are a king among men Mr. Wiggins, and that’s a fact. And glad I am for it, because I may need your help as well.” She smiled at him, her admiration growing. She could see why the boys followed him; he was a natural leader. And a philosopher. “The essential thing you must reflect upon is the person you are—a young man who thinks for himself—and that your parents are very proud of you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I’m sure of it. They are looking down on you.”

  The carriage turned left off Baker Street onto Marylebone Road. Shortly thereafter they passed Madame Tussaud’s on their left.

  “What do you want me to do, Miss Mirabella?”

  “When we arrive at the scene, I’ll look about, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person you saw. If he’s still in the apothecary, that is.”

  “The vampire?”

  “Yes, and the one talking to the vampire, to confirm it is Longstaff. Every bit as dangerous, in fact. Or more so.”

  “I’ve got it.” Wiggins frowned, contemplating her words. “He was a werewolf—because, you know, they can change. Then he changed into a vampire.”

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes believes he never was a vampire.”

  “He is one now. I saw him.”

  “Perhaps he is a man dressed as a vampire.” She shook her head. “Even so, the man is every bit as treacherous as a vampire—remember, he has killed. So, if I am somehow threatened, you must promise to leave and go get help.” She didn’t want him to be in peril as well.

  “I sees.”

  “It is quite significant that you have tied the vampire to The Madame’s Apothecary, Mr. Wiggins; this will be of great interest to both Mr. Holmes and to the police.” She sighed heavily. “Still we can’t conclude anything without proof.”

  “I saw him leave the club with a large container. That’s all I know.”

  “Yes, he could claim it was anything.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest with indignation. “We need damning evidence.”

  “And the container is gone now anyway.” Wiggins looked at her abruptly, surprised. “You cursed, miss.”

  “Only in context.” She bit her lip. It was true, she wouldn’t have dared use such a word in her father’s house. What has happened to me?

  Sherlock Holmes, that’s what.

  “Har! har! That’s a porky pie.” He grew suddenly somber. “Do you have a weapon, miss?”

  “Naturally I do.” She had learned the hard way not to be separated from her pistol.

  Mirabella opened her reticule and took out the No. 32 Marlin Pocket Revolver and loaded it with a bullet. She always kept one in her hand purse.

  “You need somethin’ else.” He reached inside his trousers leg and produced a knife, holding it out to her.

  “That could certainly be useful. But I can’t leave you without a weapon, Mr. Wiggins.”

  “Me without a weapon?” He grinned at the absurdity of the idea. “I ’ave at least five of these on me.”

  Apparently she could learn a thing or two from this child.

  “Excellent. I knew I brought you for good reason.” She placed the knife in a hidden pocket in her skirt.

  They arrived at the apothecary, and Wiggins showed great delight at knocking on the overhead roof trap door to let the driver know they would like to depart.

  Mirabella instructed the cabbie to wait for them, promising a large tip if he did so. His expression did not fill her with confidence. With more of a jerk than was necessary, he pulled a lever that released the doors, since they had already paid, and they alighted.

  Mirabella fought the urge to turn around and get back in the cab.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In the Lion’s Den

  “Action may not always bring happiness; but there is no happiness without action” – Benjamin Disraeli

  Mirabella and Wiggins watched the back entry to The Madame’s Apothecary from
behind a nearby shrub. The apothecary was dark inside. “I fear we are too late.”

  “You stay here, Mr. Wiggins,” she cautioned as she moved from behind the bushes.

  “What are you doin’, miss?” he whispered loudly, fear and admiration crossing his expression.

  “I believe he has gone. I must study the ground for footprints and other clues before the rain washes it away.” The back of the apothecary was naturally unpaved, and the usually wet English weather had made the upper layer of soil slightly muddy. Perfect for foot prints.

  “But it’s too dangerous!”

  “That’s why I brought you, Mr. Wiggins. Stay out of sight and run for help in the event I am captured. Do you understand?” Although chances are, I wouldn’t be captured but murdered. Someone has already tried to kill me. Most likely I’d be knifed and dumped in the Thames.

  I’d best not be caught.

  “Yes, miss.” She could hear him gulp loudly.

  Aha! She found two sets of footprints near the door, seeming to belong to the same person. Where were the footprints for the second person?

  It was an unfortunate location since it placed her both near the door and the gas lighting. Still, as well as making her visible, it made the footprints visible. She attempted to stay out of the light as best she could while listening for anyone approaching.

  Straight away she noticed a red thread in the footprint, which she picked up and put in her reticule.

  She took out her notebook and her ruler since she hadn’t had time to mix up plaster of paris. As she measured the footprint, taking notes, she had the sense a monster was breathing down her neck. Not for the first time she thought of the massively bulky cameras she had seen, prohibitively expensive and heavy, in the hands of only the few. Even if she could afford one, she would have been unable to lift a camera without a tripod.

  An observant mind is a disciplined mind. Sherlock, of course, thought there was no substitution for observation, and that such an acquisition would only make one mentally lazy, causing one to miss the significant details.

  Hurriedly she noted the length and width of the footprint, as well as the shape of the shoe, an unusual square-shaped toe. She noticed that the right side imprint was deeper and heavily weighted. Probably the wearer of the shoe was right-handed and had been carrying the blood with that hand. She made a note to ask Wiggins for confirmation. The stride was shorter than expected, but that may have been due to the weight carried rather than being an indicator of his height.

  Frantically she drew a replica of the footprint with the thought that a murderer might descend upon her at any moment. Wishing that the ground were soft enough for a rubbing, Mirabella outlined the print in ink—she did have a pen in her reticule—then carefully placed the paper atop it. She would fill in the details later from her notes.

  Clang! She heard a noise inside.

  Mirabella threw herself against the wall of the building, dropping her ruler in the process but holding tight to her drawing. Even in her terror her eyes returned to the outline of the shoes. These were not laborers’ boots but the shoes of a gentleman or someone well-to-do.

  Something is not right.

  Her heart pounding, she heard the shuffle of feet inside moving to the door.

  “Wait here,” said a commanding voice. She couldn’t make out who it was, being muffled from the inside. “I have something else to show you.”

  “Tweet! Tweet!” Wiggins whistled madly, indicating he had seen someone through the window. Too little too late.

  Hurriedly she turned the corner, moving around to the side of the building but still only some eight feet from the door. If anyone turned the corner he would see her.

  She heard voices. Was it Fairclough? She couldn’t determine. Mirabella knew she should run but wanted to see if she could hear any of the conversation.

  “Tweet! Tweet!” She motioned with her arm to stop.

  “It may yet save a life,” a shrill voice said.

  “The blood?” the lower voice asked.

  “Of course, you idiot.”

  Mirabella shuddered.

  “But you had to kill someone to get it,” the muffled lower voice said. Mirabella felt her hands trembling. She was able to make out either of the voices.

  “That was unfortunate, but it was the blood of a sinner.”

  “Can the blood be pure then?” It sounded as if he were pleading rather than discussing.

  “We’ll find out—if the experiment works. It is worth a try. The last woman would have died otherwise. Percival’s blood saved her.”

  “But Percival died.”

  “That was no loss to the world.”

  Experiment? Could it be a scientist speaking? The conversation was so strange that it was difficult to make out if this was a healer or a monster.

  “It is interesting,” the shrill scientist said. “I mixed the blood from both men and the combined blood clumped.”

  “So they weren’t compatible?” The lower voice was not the one in charge, Mirabella would stake her life on it. She hoped she didn’t have to.

  “No. And yet, both of the donors were sodomites. It’s baffling. I was so sure . . .”

  Mirabella bit her lip involuntarily at the horror of the actions being described. Were they admitting to the murder of both Radcliffe and Lord Percival? And here I am not eight feet from them. I pray to God neither of them turns the corner and sees me.

  “Why then did the blood coagulate?” The ‘scientist’ seemed genuinely perplexed.

  “Maybe one was sick.”

  Maybe you are.

  “That has been the scientific belief, that bloods are not compatible if there is a pathology present. I had widened that belief to include a disease of the soul. . . And yet Percival’s blood was compatible with the woman who was hemorrhaging after childbirth. It saved her life.” It was so strange how this heinous act was being discussed in such cool, logical terms. At least by the ‘scientist’. The lower voice sounded on edge, as if he were on the verge of losing control.

  As if on cue, the lower voice began shouting. “You poisoned the wine. I didn’t have anything to do with killing Percival.”

  Heaven save us! Mirabella’s heart began pounding out of her chest. Was he as much as saying that the scientist killed Percival?

  “The kitchen cook set the stage. She was the real murderer, not you or I.”

  The scientist had said ‘she’. Mrs. Kitchens. There were times when finding the truth was painful. Mirabella’s heart fell. She had never wanted it to be Evie, but had always had her suspicions. Was Evie Mrs. Kitchens? If so, did she know what she had done?

  “You tell yourself that.” The lower voiced man started wailing. “I thought I could never feel worse than I did at the workhouse. But this is worse.’”

  Who is the vampire? And what role did the vampire have in all this?

  Mirabella heard footsteps moving towards her inside the building. She thought her heart might pound out of her chest. Still, she took a risk and looked inside the window.

  She couldn’t see anyone, hidden by the shelves.

  At least one of the two had found a way in their minds to justify murder. For research. For saving lives. But it was not for man to decide the comparative worth of human beings. Or who might live and who might die. That was for God alone.

  The gas light flickered and went out, as if to make a statement, leaving her in darkness.

  The door opened suddenly and Mirabella almost jumped out of her skin.

  “Come back here!” the shrill voice screamed.

  Only one walked through the door, his back to her. He walked hurriedly, away from the building.

  “I’ll find you. I’ll kill you.”

  “Why not? You’ve already destroyed my soul,” the man yelled back, but he didn’t turn. He kept his pace.

  It could be Longstaff. Mirabella kept her eyes glued to his back but she couldn’t make out any of the features of the departing man—and dare not make he
rself visible—but hoped Wiggins would make note of some of the details. Focusing on his back, she was lost in thought.

  But where is the other man?

  She felt a presence breathing down her neck. She whirled around to see a man facing her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Surprised

  “The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”

  - Sherlock Holmes in “The Hound of the Baskervilles” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  Mirabella dropped her equipment and reached for the pistol in her pocket, but she was too slow.

  Her attacker knocked the gun out of her hand with his cane.

  Quickly she moved into a Jiu-jitsu stance.

  “Shhh! What are you doing Miss Mirabella? Shouldn’t you be quieter out here?” he whispered.

  “Dr. Watson! You scared the life out of me.” She kept her voice low.

  “And your pistol scared me as well.” He began picking up her things. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I have to go inside. The vampire is in there.”

  “I’m glad I came.” John sighed heavily. “So we’re simply going to storm into the apothecary in the middle of the night. And accuse—who?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ah, so you haven’t been able to identify the vampire?”

  “I have his footprint. And I have learned a great deal.”

  “This may or may not be the vampire’s footprint. And we can’t accuse anyone until we know who we are accusing—and have proof.”

  “The man inside killed Lord Percival. He as much as said so.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  “Could you identify his voice if you heard it again?”

  “No.”

  “So you have nothing.”

  “I know he is inside!”

  “Unless he has already left through the front door.” Dr. Watson tapped his cane on the ground. “Let us proceed to Baker Street and discuss with Holmes what should be done. He should have returned by now.”

  “We have to return to the Diogenes,” Mirabella said once they were all three in the carriage.