Clockwork Stalker: The Dirty Heroes Collection

by Silverwood, Cari

  A female, his. It was something he should’ve tried.

  Well. Now he would.

  “I need to get clean,” she protested, though looking entirely enthralled by how he had her captive. Her eyes looked as on fire with passion as his must.

  Fire eyes, fire in the veins, in the cock. Sex was such an animalistic endeavor. He decided he liked it more than he ever had before.

  “The things I shall do to you, Miss Willa Moriarty,” he said, leaning down and kissing her.

  While she was cleaning up and hurriedly dressing, he found himself at the journal again, and opened it to the page bookmarked by the pen.

  He wrote a new line and only realized what it was at the end: Things I shall do to her.

  Breathing deliberately, he stared at that line. He raised the pen and began at the left then put a line through the new words. Then added another heavier line over the top.

  “Damnation. Where are you, Watson? You would have been my moral compass.” Ah. Perhaps that was why Watson was missing, presumed in hiding.

  It was. Definitely. This was why he’d injected himself with a drug that caused focal amnesia. To save Watson from him. What a revelation.

  It was no use having a partner if one wished to eliminate them for being an obstacle. Watson was excellent at being an obstacle.

  This curse was going to require much of his attention to defeat. Then he could seek out Watson. Do not think upon this, he reminded himself. Forget him. Hopefully, he would banish the curse soon—with the help of the woman he was contemplating doing cruel and unusual things to.

  “There will be no more of these thoughts of doing things,” he said softly to himself, as he watched her draw a stocking up a lithe leg and thus create an exquisite work of erotic art.

  Sherlock stuck his pen-carrying finger between his teeth and bit down.

  When Mrs. Hudson knocked to bring them supper, they were both sitting demurely in the armchairs at the smallish square table where he usually ate his meals. Plates were delivered, pleasantries exchanged, and his housekeeper exited. Sherlock picked up the teapot when Willa remained frozen in her chair.

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She nodded forcefully.

  He smiled and poured, added milk for them both, decided neither of them needed the sugar, then picked up his knife and fork. “Eat.” He waved the fork at her plate of steaming food.

  “I… Um. Sir?” Will sat forward, frowning and with her cheeks turning bright pink. “I thought you wanted me to stay here?”

  “Changed my mind. The Iron Oak belongs to a man who owes me for past services. He’ll find a room for you tonight, even if only temporary. I mean to get you a larger one so we can experiment, set things up.” As he spoke, he’d been slicing up the kippers on his plate, and now he began on the carrots. “Eat. You need food in you. I won’t have you falling over from starvation, woman.”

  “I cannot stay here?”

  “No. You, Miss Moriarty, would keep me from doing anything of purpose if you were within reach all day and night.”

  Her bodice chose then to heave and threaten to spill her plump breasts—he’d told her not to do up the last three buttons. His fault.

  Telling her he also liked being alone might create problems. Then, because she’d reminded him of her allure, he raised his foot and found her chair blindly using it. Nonchalantly, he gave her an instruction as he piled mashed potato on his fork.

  “Open your legs and keep them that way. Now.” He briefly looked at her until he saw her move. My, how daintily her lips parted. That tongue tip of hers slipped out, licked, slipped back into her mouth. She was far too naughty for any tea party.

  He toed off his shoe, then shifted aside the skirt of her dress and parked his rather large and bare foot at the juncture of her thighs.

  “Wipe my foot down with your napkin and some tea.”

  “Tea?” she asked, gulping, going very red. Narrow-eyed, Sherlock decided he would, one day soon, do an experiment on making her redden.

  “Yes. Or spit. Your choice.”

  She cleaned his foot with tea then while she was still staring below, beneath the table, he nestled his foot deeper and started to massage her inner thighs, then the very middle of her intimate area.

  “Wet again? You’re wearing no drawers? Tsk. Young ladies should never bare their slippery cunts at dinner. Don’t forget to eat. If you don’t eat this, it’ll be raw carrots and dry toast.”

  “Oh.” Her gaze flicked up and met his. “Oh dear. What? Carrots?”

  The woman had frozen again and seemed to be more interested in thinking about his foot and where it was going than the food. Distracting her was exceptionally enjoyable.

  He favored her with a steely smile.

  Her anxious swallow, then the speed she applied to wielding her own cutlery was interesting he decided, wondering if he could make her orgasm with his toes alone.

  Soon afterward, following his stroking of her and rhythmic pressing with his toes, she tossed him a frantic look then her hands gripped the timber sides. She collapsed over the table in a panting, moaning heap, until at last she squeaked and shuddered. His foot was squeezed between her thighs. Lying partly on the table with her hands flat and fingers splayed, she gasped for air.

  Her face was hidden by the barrier of her forearms.

  Delightful. Carnal and delightful.

  “Did you climax from my toes rubbing on you? And I’m sending you to a hotel? I suppose we can always try this again in a restaurant tomorrow?”

  “Don’t you dare, sir. Please?” She peeked out one eye. “Please, no?”

  Sherlock shifted aside the dishes and pulled himself closer, leaning down so he was on her level, with his chin resting on his forearm. “You are very lucky you added the please, Miss Moriarty,” he rumbled out. “You give me so many wicked ideas. That was your reward for earlier.”

  He drew her hand to him and kissed her knuckles.

  “Now. Clean my foot again. I’m afraid you have made it messy.”

  * * *

  The Iron Oak was owned and run by David Tanner. Once upon a time, he’d offhandedly solved David’s staff embezzling problem. The culprit had been obvious, but the man insisted he owed Sherlock.

  Hence this, tonight. They’d been led up the stairs by a girl servant summoned by the front-desk receptionist, up past three floors bustling with guests, considering the late hour.

  The fourth floor was quiet and seemingly dedicated to dust. The high-pitched roof angled down over the stairwell, though when the red-brown door to room four-zero-one swung inward he could see the room height was passable. He gestured to Willa to enter first. With her luggage deposited on the floor, he sent the servant away.

  The wallpaper was too bright for him—yellow daisies and whiteness. The bed had been hurriedly made up with fresh linen, the windows were shut, including the single large casement window with a window seat before it, the electric lamps were lit, and a long bench at the right-hand wall looked promising for whatever work she needed to do.

  A door to the left must lead to a bathroom and water closet.

  He laid the machine case on the bench, unfolded the blanket cushioning it from shocks, and ran his hand over the matt green metal. His fingertips were greeted by several buttons and switches, and three little domes of glass that shielded dials. The needles beneath the dials were labelled in Russian Cyrillic.

  The machine metal was cold. From one side snaked a cord covered in black rubber. The end of it had fangs—a plug with two prongs. “You have electric power sockets in here, which is uncommon.”

  “Wonderful! That will help me enormously.”

  “An aunt of David’s used to stay here when she visited London. She passed on.”

  “Mr. Holmes, do not adjust anything on that.” Willa bustled over, stripping off her gloves. “It’s delicate.”

  “Like you?”

  “I am hardier, actually.” Though ascent of the stairs had been strenuou
s, her pinkness deepened as he studied her.

  “I’m sure that will prove useful.”

  “Umm. Yes, well. You know this isn’t functioning?” She broke from his gaze and waved at the ME machine. “I need a new diode and also to replace some wiring.”

  “Can you get those soon?”

  “If I had the funds… tomorrow. Inserting the diode and wiring will take minutes. There’s a salesman on High Street with everything I need.”

  “The funds are yours.” He reached into his coat for his wallet and began removing pound notes. “Do it tomorrow. Then I want you to begin a survey of the center of London by…tomorrow afternoon? I’ll leave you money for transport also. Is that possible?”

  “Yes! An excellent idea. London is densely populated, so if I do that systematically…” Her expression became as rapt as that of a man out duck hunting who has just sighted a flock.

  “Good, I will return the following day to learn of your results.”

  Without another word he bowed slightly then left, closing the door on her to see she’d only noticed his departure as the final gap closed.

  On the way down the stairs he had time to think on the difference between his knowledge and hers. No man, no human, could know everything and so he specialized.

  Although the science of human bodies, blood, and behavior was his in great detail, he’d not previously decided to learn much at all about the latest machines and electrical physics.

  There was promise in doing so—he could talk her language. The woman was awfully fascinated by her brand of science.

  Electrons whizzing through wires. Whatever would come next? Edison had complicated the world.

  He strode out the Iron Oak’s front door and down the three steps onto the dim London street. He pulled up the collar of his coat. It wouldn’t do to be outdone by a lady in the brains department.

  Make that outdone by whatever Willa Moriarty was.

  His sinful whore? Bedmate? Partner in carnal debauchery? Partner seemed too equal.

  Hmmm.

  12

  Clues

  As he trotted up the stairs to the entrance to the St. George mortuary, Sherlock had a list in mind of what must be accomplished today. He should leave Willa to her machinery pursuits. Should being the important word. His sleuthing suffered by spending too much time in her company. He would and should finish writing this letter to Mycroft.

  To be sure he’d not dropped it, Sherlock touched the paper envelope, in his coat pocket. It was the beginnings of the letter. Begging from Mycroft was not his favorite activity. The usual meeting with his brother in the Strangers Room at the Diogenes club could be postponed, perhaps forever.

  Meeting Mycroft in person would not be wise when his mental state was in disarray due to this curse.

  The Diogenes Club’s members were the most unsociable men in Britain. Taking a woman on the floor of your sitting room would quite possibly be grounds for eviction and exorcism.

  His mouth quirked upward, as he recognized a certain pride in being an unsociable arrogant deviant.

  The assistant sweeping the floor of the mortuary antechamber paused his broom and tried to question Sherlock. “Sir, are you a relative of—”

  Waving in dismissal, Sherlock grumbled a “Yes. Inspector Lestrade knows I’m here. The unknown woman?”

  “Slab four, sir. It’s marked! Wait. You must be Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I am.”

  “Here.” He shuffled to a desk and retrieved a sheaf of paper. This ’ere is from the doctor who examined the woman.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was single sheet of paper covered in cursive writing.

  Lestrade did not know he was here, but he had arranged with him for the body to remain uninterred and unsold to any medico for dissection practice, even though the woman was unidentified, and had been for some time. The vault was cool, thankfully.

  He stalked slowly past the bodies laid out on the slabs on timber pallets, and partially covered. Most dead were kept at home for relatives to mourn over. These were the lost or the leftovers the law wanted to check, and sometimes they ended up not in the ground but used for anatomy practice.

  Here a murder victim, there a drowning, here an unidentified woman.

  At slab four, Sherlock stopped then carefully folded back the sheet all the way to her knees. She was naked and bluish gray, with sutures holding together her chest. He didn’t bother holding a handkerchief over his nose. The smell of decomposition in here was strong but not impossible to endure.

  A postmortem examination had been done and Lestrade must have used some influence or she’d be a pool of putrefaction. She’d been stitched together, and partly embalmed also from the scent of preservatives. It took a minute to find the telltale moles and scar below her eye. This was indeed the missing wife.

  Very little unnerved him, though something about this was unsettling. It was not the extreme and unusual violence. The paper in his hand said she’d been stabbed in the chest and her heart removed. Also she’d been raped by some object the surgeon thought large but soft. There was internal damage in the area from something forced inside her. Her wrists showed signs of being tied, as did her ankles.

  “Altogether gruesome,” he murmured, then leaned over to see the bruising on her limbs.

  There was little he could see due to the days he’d shillyshallied about before coming to see this corpse. As to these injuries, he would have to take the word of the doctor. All this was the fault of his obsession with Willa Moriarty.

  He should have come sooner.

  In fact, he recognized the source of his unease. Willa.

  He sighed, and it was a sigh of exasperation, with himself, with her for existing, with whoever had killed this woman. What if Willa became a target? Was she safe? Whoever had organized the trade in women across the channel was linked to this murder. Though it was possibly a tenuous link and they may not be the primary and direct cause, his brain was telling him otherwise.

  Strange trade and strange murder.

  And then there was the mention of a symbol carved into her palms. Prying her hand apart to release the locked fist of her fingers would not be necessary.

  An addendum stated: A facsimile of the symbol is drawn on the reverse of this page.

  He turned over the sheet and there again was the symbol found in the London alley and in the basement of the bordello.

  “Where shall I find a list of pseudo-religious symbols? The library? The British Museum?” He tucked away the paper. He’d return it once he’d showed it to a few librarians or a museum curator.

  “I must bid you adieu, madam.”

  Sherlock frowned.

  Her lack of answer was not unexpected. His frown stayed put a while.

  So young.

  The deathly color could not disguise her beauty or her youth, or her pouting lips, or pretty curve of eyebrow. Barely twenty-eight, and her husband was going to be bereft. Love had been mentioned in the request for an investigation, though the marriage had not resulted in children.

  A tide of heaviness sank through him, weighing him down. Was this sadness? Worry? Sherlock Holmes did not suffer from an excess of emotions. Not that he’d deny a certain resonance with humanity. He just kept it to the background.

  He was growing soft.

  He left the building, his mind abuzz with speculations. Allowing this curse to affect him to this extent was foolhardy. This was not his natural state, and he must remember to remain emotionally distant from the Moriarty woman… as much as possible considering they were now co-partners in research.

  The library gave him the answer. An hour later he was exiting, trotting down the stairs, and summoning a carriage to take him home.

  The symbol was not ancient, though the followers of the belief it rose from thought it was. This was a Lovecraftian symbol from the stories written by a North American author with an overactive imagination and possibly an overactive thyroid.

  The man was sick, s
urely? What else could spawn such balderdash? The Elder Gods? What rot.

  A cult had formed around his words as well as a pseudo religion. Had the woman been sacrificed to try to summon these imaginary beings? Or was someone was using the belief system as an excuse for murder and mayhem?

  When he boarded the carriage, Sherlock was still sieving through the facts and reassembling them.

  In the letter to Mycroft, he would detail these new facts. They might have implications for the British Empire and Mycroft had his fingers in that pie, up to the elbows.

  Dear brother,

  May this letter find you in good health. There, enough of the ridiculous pleasantries. I have a request, as well as some information for you. A young lady of the name Willa Moriarty, and I know you’ll recall her relatives, is helping me with certain research. In return I have promised to investigate and pursue the following:

  A withdrawal of a large sum from her account at the Bank of England was made without her permission. Your enquiry on this matter will be appreciated.

  I need an invitation to be extended to her to place an entry in the coming World’s Fair. This may be beyond your scope and authority?

  This next matter is my own. I want to know if her father was involved in any crimes in Russia prior to his death.

  Details of his name and place of death, the account at the Bank of England, and the device Miss Moriarty wishes to exhibit are appended.

  The following is a matter that ties several facts together into a theory of disturbances around London.

  An airship is involved in the trafficking of women into Britain across the channel. The owners and or organizers of the company involved in that airship are hidden from me due to the Secrecy Act. I would like to know their names.

  At least one of the women sold here was recently murdered in a way that suggests a cult has formed. A symbol was carved into her palms. A drawing of it is attached, as well as some other information gleaned from the Great British Library. The research I am doing with Miss Moriarty may shed more light on this matter eventually.