Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “Now?” Dr. Watson questioned.

  “It’s important.”

  Outside the Diogenes, Dr. Watson struck a match that Mirabella might see.

  She studied the footprints outside Radcliffe’s room.

  “It’s a match.”

  An exact match to her drawing.

  ***

  Back at Baker Street, Mirabella and Wiggins excitedly reported their findings to Sherlock with Dr. Watson looking on.

  “Miss Hudson, you took a great risk. You should never have pursued the criminal alone.”

  “I were with her, sir,” Wiggins said. “And Dr. Watson.”

  “I commend you on writing the note at least, Miss Hudson.” Sherlock tugged at his cravat. “This gave Watson the opportunity to talk you out of a foolhardy venture.”

  “I’m not so sure, Mr. Holmes. If I could have rushed the door and seen who was speaking, we would now know who killed Lord Percival.”

  “Not unless you returned alive, Miss Mirabella.” Dr. Watson shook his head. “If it was the murderer, he would not hesitate to put a period to your existence.”

  “The speaker never admitted to killing Lord Percival,” Sherlock objected. “In fact, he pinned the murder on Mrs. Kitchens.”

  “True, but he was lying.”

  “Did he admit to Radcliffe’s murder as well?” Sherlock pressed.

  “No, but I know he did it.” Mirabella paced the room. “Remember the matching footprints.”

  “Indeed, excellent detective work. But we must proceed with wisdom; we do not want to act in haste and destroy our chances of convicting the murderer.”

  “I’m sure I would have thought of the wisdom of that course in time,” she said.

  “Everyone does in time. For some it is after they are dead.” Sherlock shook his head, his expression dismal.

  “I wouldn’t ‘ve let her die, sir. I was on watch,” Wiggins added.

  Sherlock muttered under his breath, as if speaking to an unknown presence, “At least Miss Belle has finally learned to keep a pistol with her—that in itself is a miracle—but she has never successfully used it.”

  “That was a bit below the belt, Mr. Holmes.”

  “In all honesty, I was in more danger from Miss Mirabella shooting me than she was from any attack, short of her storming the apothecary,” Dr. Watson said.

  “Miss Hudson, I forbid you from taking charge and doing things on your own initiative without my approval.”

  “Why? You allow Wiggins to do so.”

  “That is entirely different.”

  “Why?”

  “In the first place, Wiggins doesn’t take unnecessary risks. And, in the second place, he knows what he is doing.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “And, in the third place, you are the most accident prone person I have ever encountered.”

  “That isn’t fair. I have survived several attacks on my life.”

  “You are also the luckiest person I know,” he murmured. “At any rate, it is out of the question.”

  “But think of all we discovered, Mr. Holmes,” she protested. “It is most unkind of you to reprimand me when I have learned a great deal. We as much as know that Fairclough is somehow responsible for the deaths of Percival and Radcliffe.”

  “Not precisely. That is a bit of speculation on your part. But the connection is nonetheless of great interest,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “Fairclough has the vampire working for him,” Wiggins said. “Who looks to be Longstaff.”

  “This we must determine. It is an excellent lead,” Sherlock agreed. “Good job, Wiggins. This is information we can use.”

  Mirabella put her hands on her waist, staring at him expectantly.

  “Holmes, just admit that Miss Mirabella did a commendable job. These are all exceptional findings,” Dr. Watson cleared his throat. “Even if her methods are somewhat foolhardy.”

  “I don’t wish to encourage Miss Belle in rebellion and reckless insubordination. She is already an expert at these endeavors.”

  Mirabella reached for her reticule and pulled out the red thread. “Look! I almost forgot. I found this in the footprint.”

  Sherlock’s eyes opened wide. “The red spats.”

  Mirabella gasped as realization hit. “Longstaff is the vampire, don’t you think?”

  “But the man I overheard was frightened. He weren’t no vampire,” Wiggins said.

  “Think, Miss Belle. You have met Mr. Longstaff. Could the voice have been the same?”

  “Possibly. The voice was so shaken and choppy. And I thought Longstaff couldn’t be the vampire: they were seen together.”

  “You must not let your assumptions get in the way of the facts.”

  “Mrs. Gage saw both Longstaff and a man dressed as a vampire on the front porch of Lord Percival’s home. She is a credible witness,” Mirabella suggested.

  “Then Longstaff couldn’t a’ been the vampire,” Wiggins concluded.

  “Unless there are two vampires,” Dr. Watson said.

  “Or unless Mrs. Gage was mistaken in Longstaff.” Sherlock shook his head.

  Wiggins slapped his hand over his mouth. “Why are they taking the blood?”

  “It sounds like a scientific experiment, as disturbing as that is,” Mirabella said.

  “Indeed. I had once suspected the blood might be for a religious ceremony of sorts—or simply to scare the public—but this development is of interest. I am particularly interested in your remark that Percy’s blood saved the life of a woman in childbirth.”

  “And yet . . .” She sighed. “We must stop them.”

  “It is imperative that we do. But, as of yet, we have no proof. Only a simple red thread,” Sherlock said, placing the tobacco in his pipe.

  “Oh, I wish I knew where they had taken the blood,” she exclaimed.

  “And what will we do next, Mr. Holmes?” Wiggins asked.

  “Certainly I have my contacts amongst the resurrection men and local hospitals. I believe some investigation is in order.” He turned suddenly to face Mirabella. “Not by you, Miss Hudson.”

  Mirabella pursed her lips. “You need to decide if I am your lady investigator or if I am simply your scullery maid, Mr. Holmes. And, if it is the latter, I will go into university and leave your employ. It is your decision.” She turned on her heel and left.

  Wiggins whistled. “That is some tough bird.” He picked up an apple bit into it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Ceremony

  “Love God, fear God if you wish, but question any doctrine which enables you to play God.

  Not all sacred texts are sacred.” – “Sherlock Holmes and the Chocolate Menace”

  “Father, this is the blood of thine enemy who embodies all that is evil.” The high priest, cloaked in a dark robe, bowed his head reverently. He lifted the chalice above his head. A bit of the blood spilt onto the alter as his hands shook.

  Candles were lit all about, hanging from the trees and positioned on a stone altar. The flickering lights intermingled with the starlight and the shadows of the tree branches with only a sliver of moon visible. The smell of pine from the European larch filled the air, as well as the sweet honey of the balsam poplar and the perfume of elder flowers, creating a magical ambiance to their depraved purpose.

  “As your faithful servants we have removed this evil from the Earth in service of you, that you might cast their wretched souls into Hell.” A dozen or so people stood about him, women and men, some enraptured, some looking down, some looking away. “In Hebrews, you tell us, Holy Father, that there can be no forgiveness without the shedding of blood.”

  He raised his voice. “We know from the Old Testament, Lord, the true works, that you required animal sacrifices for the redemption of sins.” He raised the goblet higher. “This sacrifice, too, was from an animal. A beast.”

  He moved the chalice close to his lips as if he were going to take a sip of the blood. Some drew closer. Some gasped.

  He held the ch
alice towards the gathering. “I will drink the blood of those who harmed you. Help them on their way to Hell for the evil they enacted upon others.” The priest set down the chalice and opened the book on the altar.

  “Blood is the ultimate purifier. Under the law everything is purified with blood, and without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins,” he read from the Holy Book. “Hebrews 9:22.”

  “And Abel also brought of the firstborn of his flock and of their fat portions. And the Lord had regard for Abel’s offering, but for Cain and his offering he had no regard,” the High Priest continued. “Genesis 4:4-5.”

  He moved amongst those surrounding him in the dark opening of the woods of Hampstead Heath, the jagged stones of the altar matching his severely chiseled features. He bowed his head reverently. “God commanded the nation of Israel to make a sacrifice unto him. We have the blood here of men of unspeakable evils. Men who are so greedy they allow children to starve while they feast on wine and spirits. Men who play games of chance while others cannot afford heat and medicine. Men who attend frivolous entertainments while the poor who have served them lie in bed dying of consumption, having no money for a doctor.” He raised his voice in a primal yell. “And who are these evil doers? Men who have sex with other men.”

  A woman fell to the ground on her knees crying. “My own child, gone,” she wailed.

  “Remember Sodom and Gomorrah. Your child shall be avenged!”

  Another man yelled, “My wife, she died of tuberculosis, starving and cold. We had no money for coal. I worked twelve hours every day, seven days a week.”

  “You who were good suffered while those who did not labor did nothing to help you—even engaging in unspeakable acts with other men, passing on diseases of the devil to their faithful wives.”

  Skillfully he channeled their grief into hatred. He lifted the chalice over his head. “Herein is their blood, their sacrifice. We must help them on their way to Hell for the evil they enacted on others.”

  “Do not be afraid. Pope Innocent VIII’s physician himself bled three young men to death and fed their still warm blood to his holiness.” And then the robed priest drank from the chalice of blood.

  There were murmurs of confusion, approval, and horror in the crowd.

  “There are others. Let us spread terror in the hearts of the wicked for their evil deeds. Let us end the evil in this city.” He opened the book again. “Then the Lord rained down burning sulfur on Sodom and Gomorrah—from the Lord out of the heavens. Genesis 24.”

  “Friends, we are living here in Sodom and Gomorrah. This is the time of the reckoning. We will help the Lord our God to purify this city.”

  He placed the chalice in front of the cross.

  “And we shall feast and our children shall live.”

  A gust of wind blew out the candle which lit up the cross on the altar.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A Family Affair

  “The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of the queerest men.” – Sherlock Holmes

  “The Greek Interpreter” by Arthur Conan Doyle

  “The devil take it, Mycroft!” Sherlock greeted his brother with something less than cordiality, now arriving at the flat. “You might have been this madman’s latest victim.” He added under his breath, “You might still be.”

  “As might you, Shirley.”

  Mirabella peered ‘round the corner of the galley kitchen in time to hear Sherlock state under his breath, “Someone knows the purpose of the Diogenes Club.”

  The kitchen being situated only a few feet from the sitting area, she wondered what on earth Sherlock could mean. The purpose. The Diogenes was an academic club, naturally.

  “Not necessarily,” Mycroft said. “Radcliffe might have been the target. And the police merely happened to find him at the Diogenes Club.”

  “Well of course he was the target. He is now dead.” Sherlock’s impatience was evident. The Great Detective always looked more frightening when he was upset, and he was certainly upset, however deliberate his language.

  “You seem distressed, brother dear.” Mycroft stretched his legs out before him, his pale grey eyes adding a softness to his stark, masculine features. In contrast, Sherlock’s grey eyes were darker, having much the look of a thunderstorm.

  “Naturally I am distressed. I was called out in the middle of the night wondering if my brother was dead. That aside, there was a murder at your club, putting you in imminent danger.”

  “That alone is a great concern.” Dr. Watson said. “But I find that my patriotism demands to be heard. We are all aware that you are critical to the functioning of the British government, Mycroft. I worry for the safety of the country if anything were to happen to you.”

  “To hell with the British government, Watson.” Sherlock muttered. “I worry for the safety of my brother.”

  “Mr. Mycroft Holmes is the foreign secretary,” Mirabella said as she presented the group with the tea service.

  This is not like Sherlock: he always put work before personal feelings. This threat to Mycroft’s safety obviously had the effect of removing several layers of Sherlock’s emotional protection.

  She found that she liked seeing there was something underneath the stony exterior. I wonder if Sherlock knew it was there.

  “Yes, yes, we are all aware of that, Miss Hudson.”

  “Of course,” she said apologetically. “But for some Mycroft is a difficult official to follow. He changes positions so frequently it is difficult to know his precise assignment at any given moment.”

  “No one knows what they are doing at any given moment in government,” Sherlock muttered.

  “Precisely,” Mycroft agreed. “There is no accountability. It’s impossible to fail at that which is a mystery to all.” He shrugged. “Still, it can be exhausting attempting to keep up with the pretense.”

  She handed their guest a sherry which he happily took, along with an offering of finger sandwiches of roast beef, cheese, watercress, and black bread which she had quickly assembled. The tangy, spicy flavor of the watercress enhanced the sandwich despite its low cost, making it a favorite of the working class. She had bought the watercress from a young boy pushing a vegetable cart for a pence per bundle. Many children were sent to school with watercress sandwiches in place of the meat.

  Even Sherlock took a sandwich, to her relief. Outside of a slice of toast and a single egg, this was all he had eaten today. She had learned that she could manage to entice Sherlock to eat if she prepared it in small, bite-sized portions.

  And if she added enough sweet mustard, which both Sherlock and John favored.

  Mycroft sighed heavily. “I long for the days when I was a mid-level official.”

  “That was only a few months ago, Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

  “Yes, those were wonderful times.” Mycroft’s expression was wistful.

  He was clean-shaven, unusual among men. The current style was for men to have facial hair, and most men did. Mycroft had always to be different—to stand out—and yet he somehow looked more fashionable than other men, even when he did not follow the fashion.

  It didn’t hurt that he had a handsome face to display.

  “But, if you didn’t wish to be promoted, why didn’t you simply refuse the position?” Dr. Watson asked.

  “It is most tiresome,” Mycroft said. “I intended to refuse the position but never got around to it. Before I could bat an eyelash I was swept off to my new office.”

  “Essentially Mycroft is so lazy he can’t even run away from work,” Sherlock said with characteristic simplicity.

  “Not precisely true. It’s a bloody maze at Whitehall,” Mycroft argued, shaking his head derisively. “What the place wants is organization.”

  “The British government, you mean?” Dr. Watson asked. The good doctor sported a mustache and long sideburns. Unlike Mycroft and Sherlock, John always wished to follow the style of the day—to the letter. His elegance was i
n his adherence to the style. Mycroft’s was in setting the style. Sherlock did neither; his only interest in fashion was his need for convincing disguises.

  “Precisely. That place. Once one finds the correct person to speak to, in order to refuse one’s promotion you understand, he is off and about somewhere at luncheon in a completely different building.”

  “Much like yourself,” Sherlock said. “That is why you fit in so well in the government.”

  “One can’t be expected to skip luncheon.” Mycroft looked up with such woundedness that it was difficult not to have sympathy for him. “Besides, ordinarily people seek me out and I don’t have to hop scotch all over the country attempting to find a person of absolutely no interest to me. They come to me, don’t you see? Finally it was easier to just do the job.”

  To be sure, Mycroft had begun his career as a minor government official. Having an extraordinary gift for observation and analysis, as well as an excellent memory and the ability to interact socially with finesse and discretion, in no time at all everyone at the highest levels of government consulted with Mycroft—even the prime minister and the Queen. If there was a secret in the government, Mycroft knew about it.

  “How can someone who is so indolent be promoted to the position of the Foreign Secretary?” Dr. Watson smiled, munching on a sandwich.

  “I should say it is Mycroft’s lack of ambition.” The corners of Sherlock’s lips fought a smile. “He has no political aspirations and the rare quality in a government official of knowing right from wrong.”

  “Thus everyone confides in him,” Mirabella added.

  “It is most tiresome.” Mycroft took another finger sandwich. “I can’t find a moment’s peace.”

  “Your life is practically unbearable, brother dear.”

  “It has been of late, I can assure you. I don’t dare be alone for a moment.”

  Mirabella wondered why Mycroft would be a target as she dusted the black marble mantelpiece. Aunt Martha refused to install the gas heating and Mirabella preferred the smell of the wood to the coal. She glanced out the window to see the fog drifting, glowing yellow in the gas lights.