“I’m alright, Sherlock,” Belle managed to say. “Save Mycroft!”
Sherlock limped quickly to the alter to intercept Florence, who now had her hands around Mycroft’s throat.
He heard Belle scream and turned to see a man beating her. Without a moment’s thought, he shot the man, who fell back.
I’m almost to the altar. Damnit, I don’t have time to reload the gun. A wave of anguish swept over him.
As Florence began choking Mycroft, Sherlock heard sounds coming from the his brother’s lips. Praise God, he’s still alive.
But not for long.
Sherlock raised the gun over his head, ready to bring it down on Florence’s skull when, in an instant, Mycroft’s right arm flew up and hit Florence in the face, sending her backwards.
“Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaimed, his eyes watering as he reached him. “How did you possibly have the strength?”
Mycroft’s eyes were barely open, but he was definitely coming to. “Oh, my dear boy, if there is anything I have it is a tolerance for drugs. Did you think you were the only one?” He smiled feebly. “I must always outdo my younger brother, don’t you know?”
Sherlock was almost crying tears of joy when Florence stood up again—she was indefatigable, more demon than woman—but another robed figure interceded and grabbed Florence’s arms, pulling her backwards.
Evie Travers had chosen a side. Unfortunately, her aid was short-lived as Florence backhanded Evie, sending her flailing down the same steps she’d sent Mirabella down. As luck would have it Sherlock was in Evie’s path whose momentum knocked him off his feet as well, sending a new stabbing pain through his leg.
Evie’s intervention had actually hurt more than helped him. Stumbling to his feet, Sherlock once again moved to the alter as fast as his legs could carry him.
I will be too late. Sherlock knew it with a certainty.
But instead of focusing on Mycroft, Florence had turned towards Belle. His assistant’s eyes were open, but she lay on the ground not moving. This terrified Sherlock so completely, that he felt no pain at all. He practically ran towards Belle. Florence raised the dagger above Belle’s head . . .
Bang! Suddenly there was a shot out of nowhere and Florence fell to the ground. This sent most of the remaining group scurrying.
Watson? Could it be?
Sherlock looked about and saw no one in the direction of the shot.
Far in the distance Sherlock barely caught a glimpse of a dark figure atop Caen Wood Towers, the home of dye manufacturer Edward Brooke.
There was only one man in London who could have made that shot from this distance.
Colonel Sebastian Moran.
Moriarty’s assassin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A Close Call
“Belle! Miss Belle! Are you alright?” he cradled her head in his hands. She opened her eyes to look up at him. He felt a relief so great that he thought his heart might pound out of his chest.
“I think I am fine.”
“Can you feel your legs?” he asked, even as the throbbing pain continued in his right ankle.
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
“I’m a bit dizzy. I need to lie here a moment to regain my balance.”
He saw his tear drop upon her cheek and knew she must have felt it. She looked into his eyes, surprised. Her characteristic bright curiosity instantly returned.
She is on the mend.
Sherlock started laughing. He wasn’t one to feel embarrassed at what someone else might think of him. His own opinion was the one that mattered most to him.
And his opinion was that he didn’t want to be in this world without Belle. Staring into Belle’s eyes, he realized that her companionship and peculiar antics had become dear to him.
Belle frowned. “Why are you laughing Sherlock? I have been injured you know.”
He squeezed her hand in his relief. “My dear girl, in an instant I saw a look in your eyes that told me you would make it.”
“Was that why there was a tear in your eye? You were relieved?”
“Naturally.”
“You thought you might have to fetch your own tea?”
“Highly unlikely that should ever come to pass.”
“What has happened here, Holmes?” Dr. Watson came running into the clearing.
“This is not your usual excellent timing, Watson,” Sherlock said. “Even so, I have never been so glad to see anyone. Make haste, you must check Miss Belle and Mycroft.”
“But Holmes, there are at least two bodies here. Shouldn’t I see if they are still alive?”
“Damn-it, man! Attend to Belle and Mycroft first. The devil will attend to his own.”
Gently Sherlock lowered Mirabella to the ground, looking about him. “Mrs. Travers, go and fetch the police. Immediately!”
“There’s no need, Holmes, they are on the way.” Watson followed the advice of his colleague. After some long minutes, he gave his report. “Miss Mirabella is bruised only, though she shall certainly be in some pain for a few days.”
“My dear boy,” Mycroft said, still lying on the altar. “Do you think you could fetch me a sherry? My head is positively throbbing.”
“Mycroft is fine too,” Sherlock muttered.
Watson had reached Mycroft by this time and was in the process of examining him. “Mycroft will no doubt be back at the opera tomorrow evening holding court.”
“I believe Shirley has hurt his ankle. I suppose you must attend to that before you fetch my sherry.”
“It appears to be a clean break,” Sherlock said.
“Perhaps a brandy would be better.”
Watson looked up from his examination of Mycroft, alarmed. “We must get that bound, Holmes.”
Sherlock searched Belle’s eyes for any recognition of the realization he had seen there only to observe apprehension and confusion crossing her expression.
“Thank goodness Mycroft is safe,” she murmured, looking away.
And the tender moment was gone.
It cut him to the quick, but it was not unexpected. She was a beautiful young woman and he was nothing if not strange.
I don’t give a damn. I have never felt so blessed.
Both Mycroft and Belle were alive and well. That was all that mattered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sherlock Reveals All
His mood might be unpredictable, his personality both disturbing and intense, but he was a rock in his own way. Everyone looked to Sherlock to make things right. And he always did. – “Sherlock Holmes and the Chocolate Menace”
“When did you first suspect Florence Fairclough was the mastermind behind this vile plot, Holmes?” Dr. Watson asked.
“I can put it quite clearly at the moment when Miss Belle told me about the pharmacy ladies’ dentures. I knew from that instant.” Sherlock limped to his chair while leaning on his cane. His foot was set but it still throbbed when he moved too much.
“Their teeth?” Constable Athelney Jones repeated. “What the devil . . .”
“Their dentures, Constable,” Mycroft corrected. “Quite the opposite from their teeth.”
The party gathered round the fireplace at the Baker Street flat, experiencing a rare camaraderie with the Yard, celebrating with buttered rum and shortbread cookies. Sherlock was feeling a marked relief in bringing the case to a conclusion as well as in the safety of Mycroft and Belle. Watson he didn’t worry about, who seemed to have the devil’s own luck, making the good doctor a perfect companion.
So satisfied was Sherlock in the outcome that he momentarily set aside the disturbing revelation that Moriarty had a great deal to do with Belle’s rescue, who wouldn’t be alive were it not for his arch enemy. Sherlock could not like that the professor had an obvious attachment to Belle, although it must be preferable to the alternative.
“Blast it all! How did dentures lead you to any conclusions?” Athelney exclaimed, emptying his cup of buttered rum. He feigned annoyanc
e, but Sherlock knew very well the constable was in high spirits today.
Explaining that he was working under cover on that particular day, Athelney wore an off-duty plaid hat atop his street clothes, a complement to his red hair and green eyes. He couldn’t have brought any more color and joviality into the room if he had tried.
“Once you know who the dentist is, you always know who the villain is,” Sherlock said.
Athelney laughed with considerable merriment. He was seated on the settee next to Mycroft, while Sherlock and Watson faced each other in their usual wingback chairs before the fireplace.
“An axiom of timeless truth,” Dr. Watson agreed.
“You might be surprised, Dr. Watson. Dentistry may advance in the same fashion as medicine,” Mycroft suggested.
“You don’t say.” Dr. Watson appeared unconvinced.
“Stop twattling on,” Athelney interjected, waving a shortbread cookie about in the air. “Explain yourself.”
Belle offered the constable another mug of rum, which improved his congeniality of manner instantly, if any improvement was indeed needed.
“Do you think it wise to indulge, Constable?” Mycroft asked, amusement crossing his expression. “While on duty, that is?”
Athelney was not one to refuse libations, on duty or not. And neither was Mycroft, if the truth be told.
“It’s for the good of the case. A bit of fraternity puts them I am interviewing at ease.” Athelney looked to Sherlock as if to prove his point.
“Most considerate of you, sir,” Sherlock said.
Athelney nodded. “I knows how to work the crowd. Go on, Mr.’Olmes.”
“The relevant point is, once I knew who was making the teeth for the ladies,” Sherlock explained, “I knew who was behind the plot.”
“Dentures for the poor was suspicious in and of itself.” Mycroft nodded.
“It struck me the same. There was no reason to do so, these ladies were non-paying customers. They were already being fed, housed, and clothed. It was well beyond charity.” Mirabella stood behind the settee with a pitcher in her hand. She looked quite mature, professional, and more than her nineteen years today in a lavender silk suit, a lovely compliment to her coloring. Her coiffure was elegant, an abundance of glossy chestnut curls piled high upon her head. Her finest feature, her golden brown eyes shown with interest and curiosity, as they generally did. A simple pearl necklace was her only jewelry.
“Precisely,” Sherlock said. “Florence was using the working poor for her own purposes, it was never about charity for her.”
“Mr. Fairclough said the gift of the dentures was for practice,” Mirabella said.
“Indeed it was. But Florence was already sufficiently skilled. She wished to take her skills to a new level.”
“A new and disturbing level,” Dr. Watson added.
“Indeed, Watson. She practiced on the ladies to perfect her craft—and to recruit. I expect we will find that she got some addicted to the arsenal of drugs she had available to her.”
“And the fang marks on the victims’ necks?” Mirabella grimaced, setting the pitcher down and pouring herself a cup of tea.
“The wolf marks on Percy’s and Radcliffe’s necks? Yes, Florence fitted herself with a special pair of dentures. She made dentures which fit into her human mouth, inserting wolf’s teeth instead of human teeth,” Sherlock explained. “It became an easy matter once Florence had made one pair of regular dentures to fit her mouth.”
“So sinister.” Mirabella shivered.
“But wait a minute! Who was the vampire? Are you saying it was Florence? It couldn’t ‘ave been. Percival wouldn’t ‘ave met with a woman dressed as a vampire? Wasn’t the vampire Longstaff?” Athelney stroked his handlebar moustache distractedly. “We found the dentures with the wolf’s teeth among Florence’s things, but I didn’t think they fit her mouth . . .”
“By all means, you must verify our claim, Jones,” Sherlock said.
“Nah, it couldn’t be. Then how did Percival and Radcliffe not know the vampire was a woman?” Jones asked, befuddled. He added with arrogance, “If there was a woman dressed as a man, I would know she weren’t no man.”
“Eventually you would, Constable,” Mycroft murmured.
“Recall that Florence was tall, thin, and straight, with masculine features, almost androgynous in appearance. She had a low voice and wore make-up. No doubt she wore a cape and a codpiece.”
“In Lord Percival’s case she drugged him,” Mirabella said.
“Generally helpful in altering one’s perceptions,” Sherlock said.
“Certainly you would know, Holmes.” Dr. Watson stretched his legs out before him.
“I always thought Florence would have made a beautiful man,” Mirabella considered.
“Apparently she did,” Mycroft said. “She intended to make men desire her whom she couldn’t entice as a woman.”
“And then kill them,” Mirabella added.
Athelney cleared his throat. “Sickening. Not my cup of tea.”
“I don’t believe it was Percy’s or Radcliffe’s either,” Mycroft said.
“You had best expand the human experience in your mind, Constable, if you mean to be successful in police work,” Sherlock suggested. “The human race is not homogenous.”
“I’ll ‘ave you know I am successful,” Athelney boasted, wiping the milk atop his lip with his sleeve. “I’ve been made ‘sergeant’ over this.”
“Have you now?” Mycroft smiled. “Congratulations my good man, Sergeant Jones. I was fairly certain you’d received a promotion for stopping a murderer of Florence’s magnitude. Lord knows the entire city of London is relieved.”
Athelney beamed, turning to Sherlock with a sudden alertness. “But if you knew who the culprit was, why didn’t you tell us, Mr. ’Olmes?”
Sherlock smirked. “And have you tell me I was wasting your time with my imagination and flights of fancy?” He shook his head. “I think not, Jones. Even if you had believed me—an idea which is a fantasy unto itself—you know very well one is helpless to do anything without proof. One must catch the villain in the act.”
Athelney muttered his agreement.
“Perhaps you shall take my brother more seriously on the next case, Jones?” Mycroft suggested. “That might smooth things along.”
“I hope there might never be another,” Athelney grumbled.
“There’s appreciation for you, Sergeant.” Sherlock wondered if resolving the case for others would ever win the admiration of the Yard. He desperately needed their cooperation to continue working. It wasn’t about income—he received a mere pittance, if anything, unless he had a private case, which was often less interesting. Work was far more important than money.
Work is life.
“And yet, Florence can’t have pulled her own teeth,” Dr. Watson suggested.
“No, her father did at her request. But she made the dentures,” Sherlock countered. “This was the part which required practice.”
“Certainly. One wouldn’t wish to be biting into another’s neck and have one’s teeth fall out. It rather takes away from the magic of the moment,” Watson muttered.
Mirabella moved to sit in her basket chair. “And Mr. Fairclough wouldn’t have thought anything of it.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed.
“A unique invention, to be sure,” Dr. Watson agreed. “The pharmacist’s duties reach into both medicine and dentistry, and Florence was no fool. She became an expert at making dentures.”
“Unique and disturbing.” Athelney tapped his fingers on the couch. The truth be known, he appeared to take a strange delight in the more macabre elements of the case.
“But why was Mr. Fairclough secretive about the dentures? I could have sworn he was distinctly uncomfortable discussing it with me,” Mirabella said. “Florence had already removed Evie’s teeth and given her dentures. Many young ladies consider this a great luxury to have.”
“Fairclough pro
bably didn’t want us to delve too deeply into Florence’s activities. He knew she was experimenting with blood types, which is frowned upon in the scientific community.”
“So Fairclough was innocent all along?” Mirabella was disbelieving.
“Define ‘innocent’. He was well meaning and genuinely wished to help the poor—as well as his daughter,” Mycroft said.
“He’s also a dealer of addictions,” Mirabella said.
“Miss Hudson, you surprise me,” Mycroft said. “People are complex, like crystals, with both good and bad qualities. They might be savior to one, and heel to another.”
She took a sip of her tea. “I suppose this case is proof of that.”
Sherlock studied Mycroft. His color had returned, and he was his usual debonair self, though certainly subdued as a result of the loss of his friends and colleagues, and understandably so.
As one who was not prone to sentiment and feeling, Sherlock hated to see Mycroft any less than enchanted and pleased with life; it was one of his brother’s gifts, to thoroughly enjoy his existence. It was a crime to steal this from one of the few who reveled in delight.
“Just what was Nathan Longstaff’s involvement?” Athelney insisted.
“Longstaff was Percy’s butler. He had to be an accessory; Florence couldn’t do it all herself. He helped transport the blood—doing whatever was needed. He drove the carriage and helped to collect the blood.”
“But it wasn’t his idea and he probably didn’t approve,” Mirabella said.
“No doubt, but the fact remains that Florence couldn’t have done it without him,” Sherlock countered.
“Florence administered the wolfsbane in the tincture in Percival’s neck, but Longstaff would have had to hold his lordship down,” Dr. Watson suggested.
Mirabella trembled. “So Florence couldn’t have killed Lord Percival without Longstaff’s assistance.”
“I’m afraid not,” Mycroft said. “Dressed as the vampire, Florence would have claimed to have been sent by ‘the agency’ or as a ‘gift’ from friends, it wouldn’t have been difficult to gain entry. But it helped a great deal to have someone on the inside.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 29