The Devil & Lillian Holmes

by Ciar Cullen

  “But I really don’t understand such matters. Bess mostly taught me what I do know. And Aileen.”

  Kitty crossed herself. “Then Bess and I will have to teach you the rest.”

  “Thank you,” Lillian said. There seemed little else to say.

  George groaned and pushed back in his chair. “May we change the subject?”

  Phillip put down his paper. “Of course. Now, what was the urgent matter you needed to discuss with us, George? I assume it involves Marie. What did you learn last night that has you in such uproar?”

  “I met a vampire at the orphanage. Pathetic woman, slave to Marie. She’s likely taken her own life by now, as she revealed too much. Marie will be…vengeful.”

  “Anyone we know?” Phillip asked. “I thought we were alone in Baltimore.”

  “It seems she’s been here for a while. How long I don’t know. Her story was simple: Lillian’s son was in fact raised here, but he was taken by two men—to Marie, we surmise. She seemed to recognize the name Pemberton, ‘the Jackal’ who was Lillian’s solicitor. We know also that the Jackal is the father”—George squeezed Lillian’s hand in apology for his frankness, sensing her discomfort—“so it’s a fair working assumption that Pemberton and Dr. Schneider were the two men who took the boy from the orphanage.”

  “To Marie?” Kitty repeated.

  “This is where things become less clear. The woman mentioned that the boy—she called him Jacques—was part of some experiment of the men.”

  Lillian shuddered. Seeing the concern on the others’ faces she admitted, “I believe that I was also part of an experiment. I do not know what, or why.”

  “The woman believes that Jacques is still mortal, or he was when she last saw him.” George turned and looked at Lillian. “Although, of course Lil and I would love him no matter his state, and we intend to bring him home.”

  “Of course,” Phillip concurred, but his voice was filled with doubt.

  Lillian pulled out her Journal of Important Observations, which she felt she finally needed in earnest. How silly she had been before, how delusional. Now faced with a real mystery, the life and death of a loved one, every penned word leapt out at her. She examined her notations, her list of clues. Mustering the facts would help draw the larger picture.

  “The Learned Order of Psychic Scholars. The Jackal and Dr. Schneider were members,” she began.

  “Why, I believe my patroness Miss Etta was recently accepted as a member of that society,” Kitty remarked.

  “And that is why it is critical that you never speak to her about us again.”

  Kitty frowned and nodded. “Of course, Lil. In the early days, when I first met Phillip, my talk of vampires—”

  “Was understandable.” Hadn’t she done the same with Mr. Doyle? “We must move forward and not waste time worrying about what has already transpired. But we must not make further mistakes.

  “The other members of the Society are Baltimore notables,” she continued, “who claim to be interested in matters of life beyond human mortality and any and all matters of spiritism. Their newest member—well, in fact he’s only a guest—is the writer Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  Phillip rubbed at his chin, hanging on her every word. “Your great…mentor.”

  “Indeed. We visited him, and he held something back from us. More curious, he knew Annaluisa Pelosi, although he certainly didn’t know her true nature. He showed interest in the murders of Annaluisa and Aileen and understandably linked the two deaths. Johnnie Moran has done the same. The two men have met, somehow.”

  “How is Johnnie?” Kitty asked.

  “Deep in grief. He comes around infrequently to check on his brothers and leaves quickly when he sees they are being cared for. The house is full of memories of his beloved, and, well, I don’t think he much likes our guests.”

  Kitty shook her head. “You mean your guard dogs. They are exceptionally odd, even for vampires.”

  “What a snob you are, Kitty!” George said.

  “I do not refer to their skin color. That man, especially…” Kitty shuddered.

  Lillian ran her finger down her list, anxious to change the topic. “‘The castle,’” she said after a moment.

  “The castle,” George repeated. “The vampire in the orphanage mentioned that she’d heard talk of a castle. Jacques may have been taken to one, and we might assume that Marie is there as well. She would likely desire a grand base of operations.”

  “A castle?” Kitty snorted. “I’ve seen castles, but not since setting foot in America.”

  Oh, of course, you idiot! “Holmes! How could you be so stupid!” Lillian said suddenly to herself. She turned to George. “The castle. The Society’s headquarters. Did you not see the battlements on that mansion?”

  “I would hardly call that monstrosity a castle.”

  “Because you have seen real ones. A poor imitation, I’ll agree, but it makes sense, doesn’t it, George? The Society, the Jackal and Schneider, the woman you met at the orphanage… They are all related. We know that much.”

  “Where is this place?” Phillip asked.

  “Just on the outskirts of the city, near Loch Raven.”

  “I know that home,” Phillip said. “Doesn’t it belong to Congressman Coyle? I met with him during the longshoremen’s strike. He wanted to discuss our shipyard.”

  Lillian turned. “That makes sense. What doesn’t is the idea of Marie holding court at a congressman’s home and hosting meetings for members of that society. Surely she would be more circumspect.”

  “Marie, circumspect? What does she have to fear, a monster who feasts on her own kind? She has never been circumspect.” George shrugged. “Perhaps she is not there, but it is a good starting place to seek Jacques, don’t you think?”

  “They did speak of vampires when we visited,” Lillian recalled. “Between my letters to Doyle and Kitty’s talk to Etta, they seemed rather intrigued. At least, Doyle did.”

  “Why don’t you confront Doyle?” Kitty asked. “Threaten him, torture the information out of him if you must. I would if it were my child.”

  The three others stared at her in surprise.

  “Torture Arthur Conan Doyle?” Lillian sat back, recalling her own desire to do the same but also her humanity. “I think not. Of course, if he had any part in keeping my son captive, he will die by my hand. But I suspect he knows nothing of most of this.”

  George concurred. “Although, my guess is that he is following some of the same threads we are. He may be a help, if we can find a way to use him. He’s also linked up with a journalist. We must remember him and tie up that loose end if it comes to it.”

  “Loose end?” Kitty snorted. “Some poor innocent becomes a loose end just by crossing your path?”

  George growled again. “Aren’t you the one who suggested we torture Mr. Doyle?”

  “Stop it, you two,” Phillip snapped. “Now, what? We are to storm the castle, so to speak? Sullivan, Phoebe, and we three? I wonder now if even Chauncey is strong enough to be of help, although he is chomping at the bit to get his hands on her.”

  “Five of you cannot fight one?” Kitty asked.

  “I don’t know,” George said. “A stretch of her hand could send one of us sprawling, groveling for breath and life.”

  Lillian shook her head. “It matters not, at least to me. I will not sit by another day. At any moment her heinous experiment on my son could end and she might do the unthinkable.”

  George stared out the window. “I do wonder if she would accept a bargain. It’s all about me. Surely we all know that.”

  Lillian sighed. “It will not end until she destroys all of us, George. Don’t you see? She doesn’t want to kill you. She wants to hurt you.”

  “I would have abandoned you all. Still could. Or I could go to her and offer myself—”

  “Not a bad idea,” Kitty joked, but her face was grim.

  Phillip stood and pulled George upright by the arm. “Lillian is righ
t. Self-sacrifice will serve nothing except to make those who love you miserable, George. Don’t try to be a hero. We must be free of her, and we never will be if you make a bargain. You will be gone, and the rest of us will be that much weaker without you. What will happen when she determines you are gone and she needs new targets to torture?”

  “You knew her best, Phillip,” George admitted. “She was your wife. So, what was her greatest weakness?”

  “I’m afraid that you were, brother. I imagine it’s this simple: She loved a man who cared not a bit about her, who turned her husband into a monster and then did the same to her. She wasn’t a very reasonable mortal; there’s no cause to expect logic from her now.”

  Lillian snapped her notebook closed, rose and paced. “She is weak by day, so that is the time to approach the castle.”

  “We must have cover of darkness,” Phillip argued. “We cannot go knocking on the front door with the others in tow. Not unless we want this to end a bloodbath.”

  “Then we will go tonight and see if Jacques is there,” Lillian vowed.

  George shook his head. “No. Or at least, maybe not. We have so few cards to play. Let us first find out, once and for all, what Doyle knows. Perhaps there is something we’ve overlooked that can help. Surely he would side with us against Marie if he came to know the entire story.”

  “Do you intend to reveal yourself to him?” Phillip asked, shocked. “We cannot afford many more humans knowing about us, George! We have been indiscreet far too long with no retribution. With Kitty and Bess knowing but remaining mortal…”

  George looked at Lillian but answered his brother. “We are all agreed on that point. Whether the Elders are watching or not, there are good reasons to stay hidden. Lil’s friend and your fiancée know of us. We will not add to that number. I intend for Lil to simply appeal to the man for information.”

  “You will send her?” Kitty asked.

  “He cannot harm her, and she will seem less a threat,” George replied. “And I doubt she could be kept from him.”

  Lillian nodded when he looked over at her for acceptance.

  “I will brief Chauncey, and we will assemble here tonight,” George announced. “After. Then we will make further plans.”

  “What of Bess and me? Is there nothing we can do to help?” Kitty asked.

  “You will take care of the boys—no matter what,” Lillian instructed. “There are to be no more orphans.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lillian and Arthur.

  Arthur drained his cup of tea and threw on his overcoat, intent on learning more about the mysterious Lillian Holmes and the strange occurrences surrounding her. He’d passed the last two days alone, fretting, wishing young Mencken was around, as he wasn’t quite sure what he’d gotten himself into and wished for a compatriot or a partner in crime. But Mencken had gone off to try to interview the police and see what more he could pry from the tight-lipped Lieutenant. He’d hadn’t yet reported back, and Arthur wondered if the young man had moved on to other matters or was in some sort of trouble. He thought of going to see Officer Moran to find out.

  Should I have gone to Boston, left this city and its mysteries, its dangers? Will this be the death of me?

  Arthur stood outside his hotel, weighing his options, when the woman in question walked up the street toward him.

  For better or for worse, he realized, I am going to learn what is going on.

  He waited for her, and she stopped a few feet away.

  “I was coming to see you again.”

  “I’m pleased, Miss Holmes.”

  “May we speak in private? Perhaps on that park bench?”

  He offered his arm, and they crossed the street and sat. It was a fine day, Arthur saw, but this lady could not enjoy it. She had the weight of the world on her shoulders and looked like she hadn’t slept in a fortnight.

  “Miss Holmes, what is amiss? Can I help in some way?” Aside from her beauty, he found her compelling in some way he couldn’t describe. She was intelligent, certainly, but she also seemed…at once both strong and fragile. And mysterious. He realized now that he would do a great deal to help her if he could. And he hadn’t minded her beau, either, another clever chap. Although, the man had come very close to hinting that Arthur himself was involved in the murders somehow. But they’d left on good terms, Arthur allowed as he studied Lillian.

  “Perhaps you can,” she answered. Then, after a moment: “You may think what I am about to reveal scandalous, but I cannot change the facts. What did your Sherlock often say about strange facts?”

  “Your memory for the man’s ways is better than mine.”

  She shook away his smile and attempt at lightening the mood. “I bore a child when I was sixteen.” Then she held her hand over her mouth, as if that were not at all what she’d meant to disclose. Clearly she waited for a response, but Arthur did not trust she would continue to speak if he interjected platitudes. He stayed silent, curious as to why she would even share such a shame.

  Lillian turned away slightly. “He would now be seven, or perhaps just turned eight, as I do not have the date marked properly. I believe him to be alive. Two men, a Mr. Pemberton, my former lawyer, and a Dr. Schneider, had control over my life at the time. Until very recently, they ruled it completely.”

  Arthur tried to keep his expression calm, but her open mention of the two murder victims astounded him, and he knew she saw it on his face.

  “They were members of the Learned Order to which you now belong.”

  Arthur blanched. So, she does she think me complicit in this affair? Good God, is that fellow George about?

  “I am merely a guest, of course,” he said, “and have not been long in the Society’s company.”

  “Yes, I understand that. You heard me speak of Pemberton at the train station. I called him the Jackal, as he is the father of my child…but not by my wishes.”

  “My girl!” Arthur said. “I cannot believe—”

  “No, no one would.”

  “I do not mean that I think you are lying, but it’s very difficult to take in.”

  “Indeed,” she agreed.

  “I am sorry.” And he truly was. He’d seen enough horrors in his medical practice to make him nearly give up on mankind. Bruised and broken children and women, patients overwhelmed by nervous fits after mistreatment by family members….

  “Thank you,” she said. “My goal, however, is to find my son. I believe you may hold some key for me, some knowledge of his whereabouts.”

  “What makes you say that?” And yet, he did want to help. At least, he thought he did. What had they said exactly, the members of the Society? That Pemberton and Schneider had bungled the business with the child?

  “A look of recognition, a feeling, perhaps.”

  “Your instincts are correct,” Arthur decided to admit. “That is the hallmark of a truly great detective.”

  “Sir, I have never begged for anything in my life. But I am begging you to tell me what you know. I believe you to be a good man, judging from your writings and your interest in the afterlife.”

  “I don’t imagine myself to be an evil man, but I am no saint,” Arthur said. He felt the urge to run from Lillian Holmes. How had he gotten pulled into this befuddling mess? Hadn’t she said her man killed the Jackal? Hadn’t she indeed said as much at the train depot? Wouldn’t that be George, then? Of course George would want to murder Lillian’s rapist!

  “Miss Holmes,” he began. He scanned the park for threats, at the same time thinking, You fool! Could not Lillian Holmes and her beau also be the killers of Annaluisa and Aileen and God knew who else?

  He continued, “Between the piling up of bloodless victims in this city, the accusations you level on acquaintances of mine, and some odd notions I’ve heard about you and your companions, it is difficult for me to know whom to trust, whom to believe. I have urgent business in Boston and am afraid—”

  “Where are your instincts, Mr. Doyle? If I were t
o explain those murders, explain those odd notions about me and mine, would you then trust me?”

  Arthur paused and considered. “I would be more inclined to, certainly.” Was she insane? Perhaps. Did she know something momentous that he would find interesting? Yes, he thought it likely. So he sat back and stared into her eyes. “Please go on.”

  “You will remember that I asked about your friendship with Mr. Bram Stoker, and whether you believed in his creatures. In vampires.”

  “Yes,” Arthur said. His skin crawled, his heart raced, and his nerves sizzled as they had only a few times in his life: the first time he saw a spirit, and the first time he heard his dead mother’s voice at a séance. “You denied it when we last met.”

  A child’s ball bounced toward their bench, and a boy approached shyly to retrieve it. Arthur couldn’t move to help him, frozen as he was in his seat. Lillian gave the ball a solid kick, and they were left in a timeless silence.

  “I do remember, Miss Holmes,” he said at last.

  “Please, call me Lillian.” She laughed to herself and looked out at the field where the boy giggled as he chased his ball, which had soared impossibly far. “If you only knew the part you played in my life these last several years.”

  “I presume you read a great deal? Of my work?”

  “My pastime went far beyond that. I was asleep, in a way, fantasizing that I was a great detective myself.”

  “That is not so unusual,” Arthur said, wondering where this was headed. “And a great compliment to me. For it means I created stories you could enter and make your own. The best ones have that character, don’t you agree?”

  “Indeed. But that is not what I mean. For a while, I had a very strong notion—one that still has a grip on me at moments of great stress—that I am the niece of Sherlock Holmes. Tell me that is not unusual!”

  “Fantasies can overtake our realities if our realities are too difficult to bear,” Arthur found himself saying. My God, poor thing. Even if she is involved in these murders, it is perhaps because of a mental disorder. “You may not know that I am also a physician, Miss…Lillian. I have seen a great many ills of the mind. Some drink away their troubles, others isolate themselves. At least your fantasy proved rather harmless, and you speak of it largely as in the past.”