Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  A similarity Moriarty had with Sherlock.

  “The vampire could not be part of your intricate web; he would tear its very fabric,” she added.

  Moriarty frowned at her effrontery, but he appeared interested. “Go on, Miss Hudson.”

  She moved towards him, leaning her hands on his desk not two inches from a House of Fabergé Imperial inkwell. Heaven only knew why no one questioned the possession of such a priceless item on a professor’s salary. “And there is no purpose to his cruelty—no reward. Only vengeance.”

  “Most uncouth. A low life no doubt.”

  “I believe him to be an educated man,” she considered.

  “But a man who has no control of his emotions, who follows their every command.” Moriarty shook his head in disapproval. Mirabella thought, not for the first time, how alike the professor and Sherlock were in temperament, intellect, and drive. Only an understanding of right and wrong kept Sherlock from being Moriarty.

  And the absence of madness.

  No, perhaps not even that.

  “Uncivilized. And yet, most men are.” Moriarty fixated his glance on her. “I might be able to assist, Miss Hudson. But you will have to tell me of what benefit my helping you is to me.”

  “This is very personal to Sherlock Holmes, professor.” Her finger touched something, and she look down to see an ink pen adorned with the head of a serpent.

  “Mycroft.” Moriarty tapped his fingers on the desk.

  “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “But I speak of Sherlock. If this bedlamite succeeds, Mr. Holmes will lose his focus. He will not be a worthy adversary.”

  “Ha! ha! You will have to do better than that, Miss Hudson.”

  “You say that now, but you would be miserable without the challenge.”

  “I will have to take my chances I suppose.” He leaned towards her, clearly unimpressed. “What else do you have, Miss Hudson?”

  “This vampire’s criminal empire is growing. He could be a threat to your position. Particularly as his attacks are random, fueled by his own generalized hatred.”

  “Vulgar and unrefined, to be sure, but no competition for me.”

  She swallowed hard. She hadn’t wished to reveal anything of significance—but Moriarty left her no choice. “What if the vampire takes out someone of consequence to you? Someone who helps run your machine?”

  “Then he would die, naturally.”

  “I’m quite sure there is a man of a different persuasion—someone brilliant—who could be targeted.”

  “Of a different persuasion?” He stood up from his seat. “So that’s how it is, is it?”

  “Someone important to you, Professor.”

  “That narrows the field, doesn’t it?” He raised his eyebrows. “How important? Speak plainly, girl.”

  “A man critical to your financial empire.” She could see from the sudden light in his eyes that he had an idea of whom she was speaking. She had given him two hints, after all.

  Still, Moriarty would never give her the name. She would have to prove what she knew. Which would immediately put her in danger.

  It never paid to know too much about Moriarty’s operation.

  “Give me the name, Miss Hudson,” he demanded. His eyes said, if you wish to leave here alive.

  Mirabella had been paying attention—to both Sherlock and Moriarty. “Mr. Gribbon is in danger while this vampire roams the streets.”

  “Gribbon is a financial genius.” Moriarty frowned, murmuring, “What a great loss that would be.”

  Sherlock is right. Moriarty is connected to this Gribbon. Losing the banker would be a personal loss. “I assure you that is of no interest to our criminal.”

  “And why does our Mr. Holmes believe Mr. Gribbon might be a target?”

  “He didn’t say.” That, at least was true.

  Suddenly fury crossed his expression. “So Holmes told you about my relationship with Mr. Gribbon. And his persuasion?”

  She feigned indignance. “I don’t have to be told everything.” The last thing she wanted to do was to implicate Sherlock. “Anyone might have deduced it. Mr. Gribbon is a high-ranking official at the Bank of England. You have been seen with him. He is no doubt your banker. Many men of wealth have financial advisors.”

  The gentleman in question was also a friend of Mycroft’s—and, worse, a member of the Diogenes Club. She was new at this game, but there could be no doubt that any member of the Diogenes club was in danger. Moreover, both Overton Bristow and Radcliffe were exceptionally intelligent by all accounts. The bizarre notion had taken hold of her mind that the killer believed their blood to be superior—and wanted it.

  Moriarty seemed to be reflecting upon her words. “What do you want from me, Miss Hudson?”

  She suppressed a smile. There could be no doubt that Moriarty considered Mr. Gribbon to be a matter of great consequence. “I want assistance getting into the workhouse. St. Pancras to be exact.”

  “You don’t need my help for that. Just walk in the front door.”

  She cleared her throat. “I want to be one of the girls the overseer shows to Mr. Fairclough.”

  “Fairclough, is it?” He lowered his eyelids, as if understanding was dawning.

  Moriarty stood and moved to the blackboard. “And what about my thermophile? What is the next step in developing it to cut steel?”

  She frowned. “I thought securing Mr. Gribbon’s safety was my part of the bargain.”

  “An elusive offer at best. You have merely pointed out that he is in danger in the hope that I would be sympathetic to your cause. You have no way of protecting him, do you Miss Hudson?”

  “And are you sympathetic to my cause?”

  “If you mean, do I care about Gribbon’s safety, yes. But I will merely take matters into my own hands now.”

  “Do you not feel some gratitude to me, professor?”

  “Indeed I do. But I am under no obligation to give you anything, Miss Hudson. You have nothing to offer. You have already given me the information.”

  She sighed heavily. Mentioning Mr. Gribbon—at potentially great personal cost—had gotten Moriarty’s attention, but he would never help her until he would benefit from doing so. She bit her lip and bit the bullet. “I have an idea about the thermophile.”

  “I’m fully aware of that.”

  “And you will help me if I tell you?” she asked.

  “Naturally.” There was a sudden sparkle in his eyes.

  “How do I know that you will fulfill your side of the bargain?” she demanded.

  “If what you tell me proves to be useful, I will certainly want to keep you around to expand upon the idea. It’s only logical.” It seemed irrefutable when the professor said it that way.

  “You can get me noticed by Mr. Fairclough?”

  “I can and I will.” And she knew he could. “So tell me what I wish to know. How do I cut steel with light? Do you have any ideas on how to begin research on answering this question?”

  “I do.”

  “And what are they?”

  She swallowed hard, remembering this man holding a six-inch bad in front of her neck. He would kill her without the slightest compunction if he felt it was to his benefit.

  Which it was not at present.

  “Miss Hudson? I am waiting.”

  “As soon as I get in with Fairclough I will tell you.”

  Fury crossed his expression, but he quickly regained his composure. “How do I know you will?”

  “Because, my dear professor, unlike you my word is good.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  On the Inside Looking Out

  “Data! data! data!” he cried impatiently. “I can’t make bricks without clay!” - Sherlock Holmes, “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  There is no other way. Her hands were shaking as she inched forward. She wanted to turn and run the other direction, but she knew this was the only option left to her.

  From their expressions of a
pprehension and fear, she was in line behind others who felt the same. The young woman directly in front of her was pregnant. As the workhouse was the last place anyone wanted to come, she was no doubt unmarried and cast out by her family. If the young mother had a husband—a wage earner—she wouldn’t be here.

  She studied her reflection in the glass as she entered the Saint Pancras Workhouse. I am too young to look like an old lady. Blackened teeth, grey around her eyes, her hair long, stringy, and oily.

  “Repent! Repent of your sins and turn to God!” There was yelling in the dining room of all places. Mirabella looked around the corner to see one of the three clergy circling the floor, raising his voice so as to be heard above the other two. There was no difficulty in that. The workhouse inhabitants were relatively silent, occasionally murmuring to each other.

  “Repent of your sins and turn to God!”

  Of what sin was one to repent? Being poor? Sick? Poverty and sinfulness were apparently the same thing in the eyes of the clergy.

  And in the eyes of the general population. To be a burden on the state, to require charity was a great sin.

  Next to her was another girl about her age, who smiled at her, showing darkened teeth against her sallowed skin. But there was a great deal of warmth in the girl’s eyes, so she introduced herself. “Hello. I’m Mabel.”

  “I’m Denise.”

  “Hey, you! What’s your name?” the lady guard demanded from a few yards ahead.

  “Mabel Bernard.”

  “Keep your eyes forward, Mabel.”

  “I’m not bothering you, you old witch, and it’s no sin being friendly to others—particularly on the Sabbath,” Mabel said under her breath. She would be ashamed to say this as Mirabella, but it was necessary to becoming Mabel. Besides, no one would treat Mirabella the way they were treating Mabel. “What are they going to do, lock the gates of hell? They couldn’t.” She glanced behind her. Another girl about her age giggled at her.

  In the meantime, the guard was busy accosting the females ahead of them. No doubt their time would come.

  “I’m Tilly,” the girl behind her said, biting her lip. “You ought not to make the guard mad.”

  “From the looks ‘o her she don’t know no other way,” Mabel said. “There’s no law against looking about.”

  Tilly looked unconvinced. “Yer might be surprised.”

  “Why are you ‘ere?” Mabel asked.

  Tilly looked down, her shame apparent. “I had a job at the factory. A good job.” She beamed momentarily, obviously proud of that job. “But I dropped on the floor of the factory—from being so tired, you see—and they sacked me.”

  “That’s too bad, it is. It wasn’t your bloomin’ fault. Workin’ twelve to fourteen hour days, seventy hours per week. Those masters wouldn’t treat their horses that way.” For girls and women the wages were too low and the jobs too few. To be a factory girl was about all that was left.

  Tilly nodded at Mabel’s understanding, but there was fear in her eyes. “But we can’t complain. It won’t serve.”

  “Don’t worry, I ain’t here to make trouble for you.” Mabel handed a piece of bread and cheese to each Denise and Tilly. Just a name for myself.

  Denise happily took it. As hungry as she obviously was, Tilly hesitated. “Are you sure? Don’t you want it?”

  “They’ll ‘ave it from us when they strip us. We’d best eat it now.”

  Tilly saw the wisdom in that—wasting food being akin to a sin in most households. She took the bread and hungrily snarfed it down, speaking while chewing. It seemed that whatever concerns Tilly had about befriending a troublemaker had dissolved instantly with the appearance of the fresh bread and cheese.

  The pregnant girl ahead of Denise, also portraying an expression of shame and shyness, peered behind her just long enough to display an envious glance. Mabel tapped on the young mother’s shoulder, handing her a piece of bread and cheese.

  The girl hesitated.

  “’Ave it! Oi!” Mabel commanded.

  “I’m Clara, right,” the girl said as she happily accepted the nourishment.

  Mabel smiled. It seemed having food was the way to make friends here.

  “I thought they only took away our clothes,” Tilly whispered. “Why did you say they would ‘ave your food?”

  “Yes, they will strip us, to wash for varmints. They’ll bathe us and give us uniforms, right? But they’ll ‘ave everything we own, only to be returned if we leave, if then.” She snorted. “Naturally the bloody food would be disposed of.”

  Tilly nodded sadly. “That’s the way of the world; to take everything from you and give nothing back.”

  “How do you know this, Mabel? ‘ave you been in the workhouse before, eh?” Denise asked.

  “No. And I plan to leave as soon as I can.”

  Clara’s face fell. She would not be able to leave. Not with a baby.

  Mabel pushed her way ahead of Clara so she’d have time to finish the food.

  “Listen, here, Missy, if you give me any guff, I’ll beat you—and like it.” They had reached the guard by now, who, smiling with anticipation, pointed to a whip leaning against the wall.

  “I meant no offense, Ma’am.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Mabel reached inside her pocket and took out a beautiful velvet choker sporting a silver heart. “This is the only thing I have left, a gift from me mum. I’ll give it to you if you’ll watch out for me and me gals here.”

  “Ha! ha! I’m takin’ it anyway.” The old hag laughed, snatching the choker out of Mabel’s hands.

  “Consider it a present then. But, remember, right, a witch put a spell on it for me. If anything happens to me or me mates, it will be a sad day for you . . .” Mabel ran her hand across the air in front of her neck, to signify hanging.

  “I don’t want it, then. Blimey!” The guard threw the necklace on the table.

  “It’s too late. The spell ‘as already been attached to you. Be a sweetheart then and nothing will ‘appen to you.” Mabel smiled with a certain all-knowing gleeful expression which showed the other woman she had not the slightest fear of the guard.

  “Empty your pockets,” the guard woman commanded, her voice barely audible. Shaking, she warily continued with her usual lines. Mabel put a small jar on the table.

  “Open it.” the older woman commanded.

  Inside was an ointment of a sickening grey color.

  “Wossat, you evil girl? It smells horrible.”

  “It’s an ointment the witch gave me. It protects the pure of heart and punishes the evil. Does it look grey when you look at it? It’s pink when I look at it.”

  Tilly started to choke but kept her mouth shut.

  “You can keep it! I don’t want it any where near me!” the guard screamed.

  Mabel shrugged, picking up the small jar.

  “Who is the witch what put the spell on the necklace?” the guard demanded.

  “Me mother.” Mabel smiled sweetly. “It’s said I take after ‘er.”

  Mabel walked inside, her head held high. She was ready to be stripped, scrubbed, and transformed into an inmate of the St. Pancras workhouse. She had called upon her angels to help her.

  And indeed, they had.

  ***

  Mirabella entered the dining room still in possession of her jar of grey make-up, necessary to her disguise. One needed such things to disguise good health.

  It hadn’t taken long to conclude that Sunday was not a pleasant day in the workhouse. Sunday started out well enough with an extra hour’s sleep and the service, she learned, as well as some leisure during the day for the residents. Monday through Saturday were all working days.

  But Sunday quickly began to feel like a working day; certainly it was not a day of relaxation. After supper, the howlers began in earnest: a troop of preachers yelling at the residents about their combined sin of poverty until bedtime. Sunday’s goal appeared to be to make the inhabitants feel worse about
themselves and their situation than they already did.

  “Hello, Guv’nor,” Mirabella said, moving to sit beside an older gentleman. Sunday was the only day when the ladies and the gents might congregate together.

  Mirabella was waiting to be discovered by Mr. Fairclough, but, in the meantime, she sought to find out all she could about the people here and what drove them to enter. Even her father, as kind a person as she had ever known, seemed to hold those in the workhouse in some derision, however slight.

  “Hello, miss. You must be new. And what is your name?”

  “Mabel. And you, sir?”

  “Mr. Kingsley, if you please.”

  “Woss a gentleman such as yourself doing ‘ere, Mr. Kingsley?” Even from his few words and his accent, she could discern he was educated. He wore the workhouse men’s uniform very well: trousers and a waistcoat, a striped cotton shirt, a stout woolen jacket of fearnought cloth, and a cloth cap.

  “My you’re a bold one, Miss Mabel.” He chuckled, tipping his cap to her.

  It was fine for him to think her a fearless girl, as this was the impression she wished to give. Sherlock had impressed upon her that it wasn’t enough to look the part: one must also speak the part, move accordingly, and assume the correct personality. This might be her greatest test.

  Speaking with Mr. Kingsley was her opportunity to practice.

  She slouched in her uniform, though it was entirely unnecessary to making her appear formless. It was a waistless blue-and-white cotton shirt, utterly shapeless, covered with a smock. She wore a mop cap on her head. If the intent was to make the ladies as unattractive as possible, they had succeeded.

  But that was for the best, it aided in her disguise.

  Her undergarments consisted of a red flannel petticoat, thick black stockings, and black boots. At least she wasn’t cold, to the contrary. This was better than living on the streets, that was certain.

  The older ladies had a woolen shawl as well and wore bonnets. Thankfully they had done away with the practice of making the prostitutes wear yellow and the unmarried pregnant ladies wear red.

  Still, everyone knew into what category everyone else fell. Much like the outside world, she supposed. Or, at least, they thought they knew.