Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “I thought it was the butler’s night off,” Mirabella asked.

  Sergeant Jones shook his head. “No one could corroborate that Longstaff was at the theatre.”

  “Precisely,” Sherlock said. “Florence dined with Percy, and when his lordship was getting sleepy she called Longstaff for assistance. Together they administered the wolfsbane.”

  “Even drugged, Percy would have fought back.” Mycroft frowned, his grey eyes as dark as thunderclouds as he recalled the death of his two friends and associates.

  “Then Longstaff was to change clothes and act like he was the butler returning from the theatre,” Sherlock said.

  “They hadn’t quite finished when one of the neighbors contacted the Yard, having seen a vampire leaving the mansion,” Athelney added. “We beat ‘im to it, as we often do.”

  “When did you first suspect Mr. Longstaff was not actually a butler?” Mirabella asked, taking a shortbread cookie and dipping it in her tea.

  “From the moment I laid eyes on him, naturally,” Mycroft balked, as it the question itself were preposterous. “Of course, it was confirmed when he opened his mouth.”

  “Because of his northern brogue?” Mirabella asked.

  “Not at all. The man was unsure of the scullery maid’s name,” Mycroft frowned. “The butler would know the names of all of the household staff, without question. It is unthinkable he would not.”

  “But Evie was really Mrs. Kitchens, the scullery maid who assisted Denzil in the kitchen,” Mirabella said.

  “Your question is also your explanation, Miss Hudson,” said Mycroft.

  “Precisely. For a diabolical plan to be successful, all the details must be attended to,” Sherlock said. “In a normal household, regardless of its size, the butler would know every employee’s name. The fact that he had not bothered to learn her name—alias or not—implicated Longstaff.”

  “He did it for money, then?”

  “Probably quite a bit of it,” Mycroft said.

  “How did you know he had built ships, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella asked.

  “You’ll recall he used the term ‘galley’ when referring to the kitchen, a sailor’s term. He had an injury, explaining his slight limp, and ended up in the workhouse. Working on the docks is hard work for low pay. When I first saw the rope burns on his hands, I thought it was from picking Oakum in the workhouse, but then I realized those burns originated in his ship building days.” Sherlock said.

  “Fairclough picked Longstaff up at the workhouse. Florence zoomed in on him, seeing that Percy needed a butler,” Mycroft said.

  “I expect Longstaff didn’t know what he was getting into,” Mirabella said. “Until the poisoning started taking effect. Probably the horror of seeing Florence’s plan unwind was a bit of a shock.”

  “We could see that when we arrived; the man was completely out of his element,” Mycroft agreed. “As it turned out, good looks weren’t enough to play the role.”

  “The man I heard at the pharmacy was mortified with what he had done,” Mirabella said.

  “As well he should have been,” Mycroft said.

  “He wanted out,” Mirabella added.

  “So you’re saying . . . Longstaff ain’t . . . a fairy?” Athelney asked.

  “Unlikely. And no way of knowing,” Sherlock said. “It’s irrelevant to the crime.”

  “Being a fairy is never irrelevant,” Athelney grumbled.

  “And what of the red thread? Was it from Mr. Longstaff’s spats?” Mirabella asked.

  “Yes and no.” Sherlock took a sip of rum. “It was Fairclough’s military plaid gaiters from his regiment which Florence had loaned to Longstaff.”

  “The Royal Scots,” Dr. Watson added.

  “Yes. Which we verified on our trip to the Scottish Highlands.”

  “The honor due to a military man,” Dr. Watson said.

  “But why?” Mirabella asked. “Why did Florence give her father’s gaiters to Nathan Longstaff?”

  “It was symbolic, a hateful act. As well as planting the evidence on her father. She wished to implicate him if it got to that point. Recall that Longstaff had to assist Florence and might well have gotten blood on himself.” Sherlock said. “Upon returning the spats to her father, blood was unlikely to be visible. However, if the police thought to test the spats for blood, Fairclough would appear to be the guilty party.”

  Mirabella shuddered. “Why did Florence hate her father so much?”

  “Was there anyone Florence liked?” Mycroft picked up a small cucumber sandwich from a tray Mirabella had placed on coffee table in front of them, alongside the shortbread cookies.

  “Indeed, she channeled her hatred in many directions,” Sherlock added.

  “Perhaps it was because her mother was not attached to her and her father was absent for the most part when she was growing up,” Mycroft added. “She was somewhat parent-less until she became an adult. She must have felt abandoned and unloved her entire childhood, which was re-ignited with her broken engagement.”

  “No doubt she did. And yet look at Wiggins,” Sherlock said. “Who has had far fewer advantages and is primarily concerned with the welfare of his men.”

  “Did Florence kill Overton Bristow?” Mirabella asked.

  “Beyond a doubt,” Sherlock said.

  “No! You don’t mean it!” Athelney’s jaw dropped.

  “When she killed Lord Percival her revenge was complete,” Mycroft said. “It was her plan from the beginning.”

  “Then why did she kill Radcliffe?” Mirabella asked. “For the money?”

  “Yes, at this point she saw all the money to be had in her endeavors,” Sherlock explained.

  “She found that murder was a profitable business,” Watson said.

  “As many have done before her,” Mycroft added. “Spreading hatred is one of the oldest money-makers there is.”

  “If Radcliffe refused her proposition, she may have felt he knew too much,” Watson suggested.

  “Perhaps she became addicted to murder, the very thing which was supposed to end all her suffering,” Mirabella considered. “Using another murder to momentarily make her forget the horrible things she had done.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she was much distressed over her actions,” Mycroft suggested.

  “So then . . . who killed Denzil?” Athelney asked.

  “Why don’t you work that one out for yourself?” Sherlock suggested.

  “Alright then. Longstaff.” Athelney said.

  “Incorrect,” Sherlock said.

  “I would have thought it was Longstaff. Denzil wasn’t killed like the others,” Mirabella agreed.

  “There were no marks on his neck, and no blood was drained. It couldn’t have been the vampire,” Atheleny said.

  “Florence couldn’t very well mutilate a body in a public place without calling attention to herself,” Sherlock said.

  Mycroft swirled his buttered rum. “Recall that Florence had a gift for disguises—and as dressing as a man. Perhaps she liked the idea of being a man in a man’s world. She was disguised as a sailor on leave. She and Denzil were having drinks in a public place.”

  “But Denzil had to have helped Florence, and been part of the plot,” Athelney said.

  “Perhaps not,” Sherlock said. “Florence got Evie the job for the one night only and Denzil was focused on his dinner preparations. Women do tend to be covered from head to toe, particularly servants.” He glanced at Mirabella.

  “However the conversation went, Florence decided Denzil knew something or was onto something,” Mycroft said. “And Florence hated men. Not just men of a certain persuasion. All men, I believe.”

  “So sad,” Mirabella murmured. “Florence might have done so much good—she was in the position to do good. How fortunate she was to be a professional woman when there are so few professions available to women.”

  “And Radcliffe? We didn’t find any poison in the wine,” Athelney said. “Perplexing.”

  “
Florence was at close range with Radcliffe. She could have killed him easily any number of ways. And yet she chose the less elegant way of knocking him over the head,” Sherlock said. “By this time Florence’s confidence would have been increasing, as well as her audacity.”

  “Yes, working in an apothecary, Florence would be familiar with all the herbs and any number of poisons,” Mycroft said. “But it had finally occurred to her that she shouldn’t taint the blood, which would increase her chances of compatibility and success. She did want to continue selling the blood, and she was a chemist and a scientist.”

  “So, if Florence was dressed as the vampire, why did Radcliffe give her admittance?” Athelney asked.

  “Because she wasn’t dressed as a vampire. She was disguised as a man,” Watson said.

  “There is another possibility,” Mycroft added. “Certainly in Percy’s case Florence was dressed as a man—a vampire. But in Radcliffe’s case, she may have been dressed as Florence.”

  “You mean, as a woman?” Mirabella asked.

  “Yes, as herself. Everyone was on watch for someone dressed in a vampire’s costume, after all. She may have suggested to Radcliffe that he invest in the research of blood compatibility and blood transfusions.” Mycroft sighed. “Radcliffe would not have discriminated. He did not attribute brains to his gender only.”

  “Only cruelty,” Sherlock said.

  “And what was Evie’s involvement?” Mirabella asked anxiously. Despite the horror of the subject, it obviously warmed Belle’s heart that she was able to ask questions and to be involved; this would ordinarily be absolutely taboo for the help, particularly the female help.

  “She knew up from down, no doubt,” Athelney said.

  “Evie had a much smaller role,” Sherlock said. “She was the scullery maid, assisting in the kitchen.”

  “So Evie didn’t administer the poison?” Mirabella asked with a sigh of relief.

  “In a manner of speaking, she did. She cooked the mushrooms which Florence had brought, but technically they didn’t contain any poison. It was combining the foods that created the poison. Evie didn’t know she was doing anything more than cooking,” Sherlock said.

  “Though she had some awareness of the sale of the blood,” Mycroft said. “She must have pieced some of it together.”

  “Still, Florence couldn’t have done it without Mrs. Travers. She was a party to the crime,” Athelney said.

  “It’s important to note what she believed at the time of the murder,” Dr. Watson suggested. “Mrs. Travers can’t be held culpable if she truly didn’t know. Particularly since there was no actual poison in the food.”

  “For all the body knew,” Athelney said.

  “Once she did know, she didn’t assist with Radcliffe,” Dr. Watson argued.

  “Or maybe she wasn’t asked to assist with that murder,” Mycroft mused. “The more the merrier doesn’t always apply.”

  “Evie didn’t plan the murder and she certainly couldn’t have approved.” Mirabella sighed heavily. “It was wrong. I just mean I can understand now how a good person—a hungry person—can do something immoral. Or look the other way.”

  “I never thought to hear you say such a thing, Miss Belle,” Sherlock remarked with interest. “You’re always so black and white about these matters.”

  “I am never an advocate of the end justifying the means. I always believe if you choose the Godly path, a solution will be present itself.” Mirabella sighed heavily. “But that is my standard. I am not a mother and I have some compassion for Evie after having seen the workhouse for myself.”

  “Quite so,” Dr. Watson nodded. “Florence no doubt threatened to throw Evie and her children out of the commune if she didn’t assist. Evie didn’t care for herself, but she would have done anything for her children—and to keep her family together.”

  “I wish we might apply some of that compassion and sense of justice to Percy. He was the one with wolf bites in his neck.” Mycroft said.

  “Wrong is wrong and right is right is what I say,” Athelney stated.

  Mycroft turned to the Sergeant. “I am gratified to learn your empathy has grown to encase all victims of violent crimes, Jones.”

  The Sergeant twirled his handlebar mustache and grumbled.

  “Recall that Evie has seen much horror in life,” Mirabella said solemnly. “And possibly Longstaff. I have no way of knowing.”

  “Our esteemed butler will have his opportunity to give his account before the court,” Sherlock said. “He has been apprehended in New York.”

  “What was Mrs. Travers’ explanation when you asked her, Sergeant? I presume you have interviewed her?” Dr. Watson asked.

  “O’ course! We are not newbies at the Yard.”

  “And her response?”

  “She had no idea what she was getting into. She thought she was only cooking at Lord Percival’s.”

  “Makes sense. Florence wouldn’t have told her,” Dr. Watson said.

  “Later Mrs. Travers knew about Florence’s experiments with blood. Evie was told it would save mothers in childbirth. She didn’t realize there would be an actual murder at the Percival residence until she heard about it later from people talking in the pharmacy. Naturally she didn’t think she had anything to do with it. She wasn’t allowed on the main floor,” Sherlock said.

  “Obviously, Longstaff had to know something was up when he went to the Diogenes,” Mycroft said. “And yet he went.”

  “Likely after Florence killed Radcliffe. Longstaff showed up after death ensued,” Sherlock said. “Florence drained the blood and then returned to the pharmacy ahead of Longstaff, leaving him to transport the blood. This was why he wanted out, when he realized Florence was grooming him to be part of an army of vampires.”

  “And what was the first clue?” Mycroft posed. “A bit slow on the uptake I should say.”

  “It is difficult to know if it was the body writhing in pain, the fangs in the neck, or the container of blood,” Sherlock considered.

  Mirabella shuddered. “Why did Florence wish to kill Radcliffe?”

  “She had no objection to killing anyone,” Sherlock said. “But it’s difficult to say whether her greed or her hatred was greater: at this point her revenge was complete. It was the blood she wanted.”

  “It’s importune to recall in instances such as this that, no matter how villainous an individual, she could have done nothing without her followers,” Mycroft said.

  “If it was for greed, why did Florence leave The Roses of Heliogabalus behind?” Mirabella asked.

  “Simple.” Mycroft smiled. “She didn’t have an artist’s heart. She didn’t recognize its value.”

  “Understandable,” Athelney said sympathetically.

  “It was critical to her plan to present a certain picture to the public—and her victims,” Sherlock said. “All of her actions had to fit the pattern for her scheme to work.”

  “What about the attack on Miss Mirabella after she spoke to Fairclough in the pharmacy?” Dr. Watson asked.

  “Florence, who was behind the counter, overheard the conversation, of course, and sent one of her goons after Miss Belle.”

  “I see,” Mirabella shook her head. “When I mentioned ‘Mrs. Kitchens’, Florence must have suspected I was on to her.”

  “Naturally. As you intended, Miss Belle.”

  “But the attack only confirmed Florence’s guilt.”

  “Clearly it didn’t. Everyone suspected Mr. Fairclough.” Sherlock lit his pipe.

  “All the better: Fairclough would hang, and Florence would receive the shop, getting the independence she so desired,” Dr. Watson said.

  “Her own father?” Mirabella said, aghast. “I thought she desired revenge.”

  “You credit the criminal mind with too much logic,” Sherlock said. “Florence, in spite of her many blessings, was a disturbed person.”

  Dr. Watson sputtered. “There’s an understatement of vast proportions, Holmes.”

&
nbsp; “I am a master of restraint.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Suspicions

  “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train.” – Oscar Wilde

  “So everyone is back home and safe—your brother Mycroft and your assistant Miss Hudson.” Athelney appeared uneasy despite having concluded a shocking case. “Florence is dead from the gunshot . . .”

  “It’s a shame.” Mirabella poured another round of hot buttered rum for the gentlemen and tea for herself, exposure to the ghastly side of humankind being no excuse for a respite in the employ of one Sherlock Holmes. “Florence might have been running the pharmacy in time. A lady pharmacist in London.”

  “I hate to ask—”Athelney hesitated, a rare demeanor for the confident police detective. “—as you’ve helped me solve the case, and it’s no small matter with me superiors, I can tell you—”

  “—Helped you?” Sherlock repeated, but a smile formed on the corners of his mouth. He was not one to hold a grudge. He either resolved the problem or didn’t think it worth his notice.

  “I might have said we did one better than that,” Dr. Watson said.

  “You did a fine job, and that’s a fact,” Athelney allowed. “Beginner’s luck, one might say. Though I might be willing to work with you again, Holmes, if the situation was right. Now as I reflect upon it, you’re a young man, and you’ll become more prudent with experience.”

  “Very good of you, Jones,” Sherlock said with a rare humility. “You’re a giant among men.”

  “At least his ego is,” Watson added under his breath.

  “Yes, yes, but there is still an unanswered question.” Athelney narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. One could say what one would, but Athelney was a policeman until the end.

  “You, a sergeant, would wish to ask me, a beginner?”

  “I would.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Who killed Miss Fairclough? Who fired that shot?”

  Mirabella almost dropped her teacup in recalling the shot that saved her life. It was the strangest thing to realize that a minuscule interval of time and a single act made the difference between life and death.