“Which it is what, miss?”
“Pauper’s shoes or fashionable shoes, that is?”
“Of course I can tell. ” He pulled at his vest. “I didn’t start work yesterday. I’m a master cobbler.”
“And your answer?”
“Without a doubt, fashionable shoes.”
“How can you tell, sir, if I may ask?”
He chuckled. “You must attempt to keep up on the latest fashions, Miss Hudson. Because of the pointy toes, of course. The wearer is someone who is attempting to keep with the style. A pauper’s shoes would not waste the leather when there is not even enough food on the table and his own children don’t have shoes.”
“I should have thought of that,” she admonished herself. She must be more attentive to detail if she was ever going to succeed in detective work. However, it did fill in the gaps to inquire of consultants.
She looked up at him with a sincere admiration, impressed with all he had told her from a simple drawing. “Could you hazard a guess who made these shoes, Mr. Taylor?”
“Mr. Nugent’s work comes to mind,” he said disdainfully, taking out a pen and paper. “But I can’t be certain of that. I could give you the names of several possibilities near to our area, assuming the shoes were made in London. I can almost guarantee they were, however, unless the wearer is a world traveler.”
“I wouldn’t expect the customer to be overly wealthy,” she suggested. “Though he might pretend to be.” A person who was wealthy had no need to go about killing people for recompense.
Unless he were killing for pleasure. She shuddered.
The vampire was obviously in cahoots with Fairclough, which indicated a symbiotic relationship. i.e., Fairclough was giving something to the vampire in exchange for the service.
“Why London and not the countryside?” she asked.
“Because the style would have not yet travelled to the country. The fashions originate in Paris, then move to London, and slowly move to the country. Unless we are speaking of the wealthy who can afford to change their wardrobe every year.”
“I understand. Maids and servants would observe what their masters are wearing and begin to copy that as their pocketbooks allowed.”
“And their station in life. Many would not wish to appear too pretentious by imitating their betters. Unless . . .”
“Yes?”
“Unless the master gave his clothing to his servant. This happens frequently when the master upgrades to the latest styles.”
“I see.” Her eyes scanned the list he had made. “I’ll attend to this right away.”
“And who are you looking for, Miss Hudson?”
“We don’t know as yet. But I can tell you that he is not a nice man.”
“I could have told you that from the shoe.” He shrugged.
“Thank you so much. Mr. Holmes is indebted to you.” She was as well but she didn’t know that Mr. Taylor would be concerned with that.
He smiled graciously, raising his chin with an air of superiority. “I hope I have been of service.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Shabbiest Shoe Shoppe
“Scotland Yard has no belief in such an extraordinary operation.” - Moriarty,“Sherlock Holmes and the Chocolate Menace”
Sherlock had told her to investigate the “shoes only”. Had he meant for her to go to James Taylor & Co. only? Or to keep researching until she found the owner of the shoe?
It is difficult to say. In the absence of Sherlock’s company, the interpretation of his orders would have to be up to her.
She hailed a cab with the intention of making inquiries at the ten names on Mr. Taylor’s list. Her biggest worry at the moment was not disobeying Sherlock but that none of the cobblers would answer a female. And a young one at that.
Her questions would be considered both pretentious and impertinent. Mr. Taylor was the exception as he was familiar with her and assured of her relationship to the Great Detective, and thus able to overlook her offending femaleness.
This dilemma created an obstacle to solving the case. How to incite them to give her information? She ran Sherlock’s methods round in her mind.
How can I make those methods work for me?
Sherlock might be arrogant, haughty, contemptuous, vexatious, and socially alienating, but he was, nonetheless, a man in a man’s world, in addition to having a commanding and charismatic presence.
As she had neither, his methods would certainly not work for her, as well as the expectation of female behavior working against her. As much as she hated the inequalities of society, she must adapt to the reality of her situation.
But do I have to lie? She was repulsed at the idea. It went against everything her excellent mother and curate father had taught her.
Hello, I am looking for a vampire murderer, and I think perhaps the vampire was wearing your shoes. Could you please identify him for me?
She swallowed hard. Yes, that is certain to inspire confidences.
Even were she a man, this line of questioning would only result in closed lips. And possibly punched jaws and escorted exits.
How I wish Sherlock were here to help me. He would know what to do. He always did.
Mirabella reminded herself that they were after a monster who had killed at least three people—possibly more—and it was her duty to do everything in her power to stop him from killing again.
So she did the only thing left to her, something she had seen Sherlock do many times. She offered a coin for the information. If a discreet inquiry failed to solicit results, she utilized her purse.
For one who was remarkably unemotional and had little in common with the rest of the human race, Sherlock sized up people quickly, knowing where their motivation lay.
She went to six of the ten shops, observing the shopkeepers’ responses carefully, attempting to emulate Sherlock’s training. She met a dead end with Mr. Nugent. One cobbler said point blank it wasn’t his shoe. A Mr. Upton took her bribe and then admitted he didn’t recognize the style. She made a mental note to inform Sherlock. If she knew the Great Detective as well as she thought, he would be teaching Mr. Upton the error of his ways at a future date. Yet another cobbler was interested in the style, even asking to keep the drawing, which she of course declined, but it wasn’t his.
Thankfully the shoe was a unique style—considered outlandishly fashionable by some. And yet it hadn’t helped her to find the maker as yet.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hobbes.” She decided to begin with the direct approach with cobbler number seven, pulling out the drawing she had made of the footprint. “I’m wondering if this is your shoe.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “Why do you ask, Miss?”
Not the answer she had wished for. But promising.
“I’m working for Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“It is a matter of great importance. Lives are at stake.” Mirabella found anything but the honest approach exceedingly difficult. “Obviously if Sherlock Holmes is involved.”
She attempted to hand him a coin but he looked away.
“I won’t be discussing my clients with you, miss.”
Oh my goodness, it’s his shoe. She would stake her life on it. Excitement welled up in her chest. But how can I influence him to share what he knows?
Why did the one she sought have to be the most honest man on the list?
She glanced to where Mr. Hobbes was working to see a hobbing foot, a piece of metal shaped like a shoe upon which a shoe was placed as the cobbler worked on it. As well as being a stand of sorts, the hobbing foot helped to mold the shoe to its eventual shape.
I must induce him to speak. Mirabella drew a blank, bringing up nothing.
Ring! Ring! The door opened and in walked a young girl, about nine years old, carrying a bag. She placed the bag on Mr. Hobbes’ desk, and several of the shoes fell out. By the size of the bag, it appeared there were some half dozen pairs of shoes.
>
The child smiled up at him, and he smiled down at her: this was two days work for him and might feed him for a week if he practiced the economies.
He didn’t hand the child a tuppence, which would have been a typical payment for this valuable service. Since a washer woman made about 30 cents per day for an 11-hour day, two pennies for an hour’s work scouring the neighborhood might be considered a good return.
But the girl was given no currency. Instead, Mr. Hobbes kissed her on the head, murmuring “Good girl”, which seemed to be all she required.
This child has a relationship to the older gentleman. She was more than a mere employee. Studying more closely, Mirabella saw that the girl bore a resemblance to him, her face not yet revealing the hardened lines of the difficult life he lead.
As if to sense Mirabella’s gaze, Mr. Hobbes’ eyes returned to hers, and his softened gaze hardened again. “We’ve got nothin’ else to discuss, Miss.”
“I don’t ask for myself, sir, but for the safety of others,” she pleaded. Without revealing the specifics of the case, and desperate to find something which would help him to understand, Mirabella looked to the back of the shop. She saw a small room with a fireplace through the door, apparently where the man and his family lived, perhaps only this girl, whom Mirabella thought to be a granddaughter.
She recalled an outside privy attached to the outer wall of the shop. Upon entry she had also seen an upstairs to the shop, which either had additional bedrooms or was rented to another family for additional income, probably the latter from the clutter visible in the back room.
She knew something else. This is a moral man. And a man who loves his granddaughter. Sherlock had taught her to consider all the facts before her. Surely there is something here I can use to my purpose.
Mr. Hobbes’ smile turned to a frown as his eyes returned to Mirabella’s. “As I said, Miss, our business is finished.”
She was learning to read expressions, and she knew that Mr. Hobbes knew something, besides being the maker of the shoe. Mirabella pulled out a guinea and laid it on the counter.
Very soon she saw that she had made a mistake. She should have known this from their earlier encounter.
“Go and lay out some bread and cheese, Lizzie,” he said to the child. “I’ll be there directly.” Then he turned to Mirabella, not before his eyes lingered on the coin for some seconds, as if he were fighting with himself. “I told you to leave. I won’t be bribed. I’m an honest man.”
Even as Mirabella closed her reticule, leaving the coin on the counter, her eyes moving to where the child was. She had begun with telling the truth, so she had no choice but to see it to completion.
She pointed to the drawing and then to Lizzie, “Your child is not safe around the man to whom these shoes belong. Do not allow her to pick up shoes from him.” She could say this with complete sincerity and conviction.
Mr. Hobbs looked at her with a startled expression. “He would hurt children?”
“The wearer of these shoes is a murderer—or he is working for a murderer. No one is safe in his vicinity.” She repeated, “Do not allow anyone you care about to be alone with him.”
Mr. Hobbs’ mouth formed into a firm line and his eyes blazed a sudden anger.
“Longstaff,” he said. “His name is Mr. Longstaff.”
The old man handed her the coin. “You work for Sherlock ‘Olmes?”
“Yes sir.”
“I haven’t heard of him.”
“You will.” Mirabella took one of Sherlock’s cards out of her reticule and placed it on the counter.
“A private detective, is he?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Holmes will not stand by while someone is being hurt. He is the best there is.”
And she meant that too.
Mirabella moved towards the door, placing the coin on the tin box. “For Lizzie,” she murmured, as she shut the door behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
An Alliance with the Devil
“Taking all of my secrets and knowledge into the realm of my sworn enemy could be construed as a betrayal, could it not?”- “Sherlock Holmes and the Chocolate Menace”
“I need your help, Professor.”
Moriarty smirked. “You work for Sherlock Holmes. He has contacts in both high and low places. What access could I have that the illustrious Holmes does not have?”
“Quite a bit, I should think.”
Suddenly his eyes twinkled with a light which tended to frighten. “Unless you don’t wish him to know.”
Mirabella sighed heavily. “That is correct.”
“I must ask myself why you would be doing something of which Holmes would disapprove, Miss Hudson?” He glanced along his bookshelf, eventually pulling out a book after some deliberation. Her eyes followed his fingertips, longingly resting upon the row of books; she wished she might have such a library. It struck her that the professor’s books were much less worn than Sherlock’s.
“Miss Hudson?” Moriarty raised his eyebrows. He never had to yell, he was always exceedingly polite, and yet one quaked before him.
“Mr. Holmes wouldn’t allow me to be in excessive danger of course.” She attempted to sound as condescending as one might dare before the head of the London criminal underground.
“Ah, so it’s risky.” Moriarty placed the book on his desk. He pulled the vest of his three-piece wool plaid suit, his belly slightly protruding. In appearance, he was the least frightening person imaginable—until one came to know him. “I never knew Holmes to care one way or the other about the safety of his operatives. All must be sacrificed to the altar of his work.”
He has a point. “It is difficult to know what he is thinking. All I know is he has forbidden me to go undercover, citing the hazards.”
“Hmmm, a treacherous case. . .” Moriarty repeated, beginning to pace the floor. “It must be the vampire case. Two of the murdered men found with their blood drained.” He smiled with appreciation. “Ingenious really.”
It was odd how quickly they had come to be on familiar terms, she a country girl and he a criminal mastermind. It was as if they understood each other on some unnamed level—sharing something in common. And they did: they were both vexed to the extreme by Sherlock Holmes.
And both felt that life was somehow empty without him.
Still, that shared sentiment did not explain her camaraderie with the professor. Mirabella knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Moriarty would kill her in an instant if he perceived her to be a threat to his objectives.
She felt her shoulders tense. “Are you behind it, professor?”
“Certainly not. Far too gruesome.” He shook his head at her. “You disappoint me, Miss Hudson. Everything must have a purpose; I have no need for the macabre.”
Looking like a monster is the last thing a monster wants. “True. Drawing attention to oneself is not to one’s advantage.”
“Most certainly. The greater the action, the greater the response. It is a law of physics. I am gratified we understand each other, Miss Hudson.” A slow smile formed on his lips. The serpent in the Garden of Eden must have had the same expression.
Between the two—the vampire and Moriarty—she felt the vampire to be the greater danger at the moment. This could change in an instant, however. It never paid to give too much information to the professor.
“If not you . . .” She viewed him hopefully. “. . . Do you know who is behind the vampire murders, professor?”
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
Mirabella believed him to be telling the truth from the lines in his forehead and the glow in his eyes. His expression conveyed a certain irritation that he didn’t know, coupled with veneration. Moriarty did not like to be out of any loop. “You must have some idea, professor.”
“Perhaps. But that does not mean I am obligated to inform you, Miss Hudson.” His lips tightened, as if he disapproved of her forwardness.
“Why does no one wish me to do or know anything?” she de
manded, frustrated. “I am not a girl who wishes to watch everyone else have an active part in life while I sit in a drawing room absorbed in my embroidery.”
“To be sure, you are not.” Moriarty chuckled. “And you do not think I have any objection to your being in danger, Miss Hudson?”
“Not in the least.”
His voice grew soft. “You might be surprised.”
The warmth in his countenance made her uneasy; it could only be misdirection. His specialty.
“Professor, please let us have none of your subterfuge and sophistry. This is urgent. The man I seek is a murderer of innocents.”
“And why should that concern me?”
“True, no one you know would be affected.”
He studied her momentarily, a slight smile forming on his lips. “Almost no one.”
He seated himself at his large oak desk, everything neatly arranged and in its place, another contrast to Sherlock’s desk. She observed a leather bound book next to an ink pen, probably where Moriarty had been taking notes for an upcoming book. His academic career single-handedly maintained his image of respectability.
“Perhaps I like the distraction while I go about my work. The case does interest me,” Moriarty said.
“Because you would like this vampire to be working for you?”
“Very good, Miss Hudson.”
She moved to stand beside the blackboard covered in formulas, studying it. “You wouldn’t like this one, sir. I have seen his work.” She shuddered.
“And why is that?”
She motioned to the blackboard as if to illustrate the contrast. “He is reckless and random. Without purpose and order.”
Moriarty frowned, nodding slowly. “That does offend me.”
I thought it might. “Of more significance, he is quickly escalating out of control.” That was the strange thing about Moriarty: he might be cruel and without conscience, but the violent act was not the reward for him. There was always something he sought outside the brutality; he was not feeding off the assault. In fact, escalating emotion was repugnant to him.
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 23