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darnedchildSummary: Bodies that had been found drained of blood are mysteriously disappearing from the morgue. Could it be the work of a vampire? Or is there something even more sinister stalking the dark streets of London?
Rating: M
A/N - Written for the Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration Fest. A Victorian vampire story written in several short chapters.
The Adventure of the St Bartholomew Vampire
Part 7
The railway tunnels beneath the Smithfield Meat Market echoed with distant rumbles from trains farther down the line. Most of the rail traffic beneath the market occurred in the early morning, so Lestrade and his men weren’t in constant fear of an oncoming engine as they searched the tunnels.
The Inspector had sent more than a dozen men—half of them in plain clothes—to walk through the market, looking for anyone who might fit the vague description Sherlock had been able to work out.
Tall, broad shoulders, thick arms. Despite all that he would have a pleasant, non-threatening countenance. His victims did not struggle too much (other than the last), which indicated that they were not expecting an attack until it was sprung.
Sherlock and Watson chose to accompany Lestrade into the tunnels. It was the most likely location for the butcher’s lair (to paraphrase Hooper). If they found the lair, then they only had to wait for the monster to come home to roost.
It took until mid-afternoon to discover the small door set back from the tracks. It opened to a short, unlit tunnel that terminated in a sturdy, locked door. It took the combined forces of Sherlock and Lestrade launching themselves at the door to push it off its frame, but once it swung open it was Watson who hurried through first.
The room had obviously been intended as storage for the railway. Shelving ran the length of two walls. There were hand-held lamps, jugs of oil, a pile of pristine wicks. Shovels and pick axes were propped against the shelves. Other items that Sherlock couldn’t identify by name were shoved into every open space. There was a chest against the third wall, and a case of glass bottles similar to the broken one he’d found at Smithfield Park. A smaller green bottle lay atop the chest (a cautious sniff told Sherlock the bottle contained a concoction of chlorodyne). A large sack and a pile of clothing were crumpled up in the corner, as if they had been thrown there.
Most importantly, in the centre of the small room was a table not unlike the ones found in Hooper’s morgue. Strapped to the table was an unconscious man, stripped naked and gagged. Rubber tubing stretched from the needle embedded in his arm, through a strange apparatus, to another bottle. The bottle was only half full, much to Sherlock’s relief.
While he’d been taking in the details of the room, looking for any clues as to the murderer’s identity or current location, Watson had been doing his duty as a medical man. He called out urgent instructions to Lestrade as he removed the needle and tended to the victim. “He’s breathing, but cold. His heart is beating far to fast. Cover him with something, we need to keep him warm. Quickly, use your coat, Inspector!”
Once Watson deemed the still unconscious man stable enough to be moved, a pair of constables hurriedly removed him from the small room and toward an access point further down the track. The victim would be removed to St Bartholomew’s as quickly as possible.
The chest, as Sherlock had deduced, contained additional bottles full of blood carefully packed on a thick bed of straw covering blocks of ice; likely blood taken from the girl that had been killed the evening prior.
After that it was simply a matter of positioning the rest of Lestrade’s men in the shadows and niches of the railway tunnel while Lestrade, Watson, and Sherlock lay in wait in the butcher’s lair.
No more than an hour later, he made his appearance.
Sherlock knew the exact moment the murderer realized something was amiss. His footsteps slowed and then stopped cold as he noticed the door to the storage room was hanging crooked and barely closed.
“It’s no use running,” Sherlock called out to the darkness. “Your day of reckoning is at hand.”
Beside him Lestrade sighed. “Why does it always have to turn into a theatrical production when you’re around?”
Sherlock ignored him and shoved the door out of the way, barely containing his wince as the hinges gave up and the door tumbled to the floor with a loud crack. The lamps in the storage room backlit Sherlock’s form so that he was silhouetted in the doorway.
The suspect turned and ran, only to crash into several of Lestrade’s men as they closed in around him in the small tunnel. They dragged him closer to the storage room and into the light. Sherlock could tell from the man’s appearance and body that his deduction had been correct, their butcher really was a butcher.
Lestrade began to demand answers from the man; but, to Sherlock’s frustration, he was asking all the wrong questions.
“Where’s the rest of the blood you took, you fiend? What have you done with it?” the Inspector shouted at the stubbornly silent suspect.
A young constable asked in a hushed, horrified tone, “Have you been drinking it?”
“Of course not,” Lestrade snapped as Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sheer stupidity of the many idiots hired by the Yard.
Finally, Sherlock had enough. “Who is your employer?”
“Employer?” echoed Watson, seemingly always one step or two behind.
“Yes.” Sherlock gestured toward the storage room. “Someone has been funding this man’s work. The medical grade equipment in that room is expensive, far too much for this cretin to be able to afford.” The butcher snarled, hatred twisting his strangely angelic face into something demonic.
“Judging from the dust upon the floor and the soot around the lamps, I would say the equipment was set up not long after the jumper escaped. Within two days, perhaps. Up until then he must have been mobile; setting up shop in abandoned buildings, working as quickly as possible, before dumping the bodies in the sewer or the Thames in the hopes that they would wash away without ever being discovered. Number one’s escape must have frightened his employer with the risk of exposure, spurring the move to this more secure location.”
Lestrade frowned. “What do you mean ‘up until then’? The jumper was the first victim.”
“The first you found, Inspector.” Sherlock tilted his head and studied the mutinous expression on the butcher’s face. “Yes, I’m quite certain now. More will come to light before this is all said and done.”
“Fuck.” Lestrade stomped his foot and looked as if he were tempted to punch something or someone. “Fucking hell.”
“Quite,” Sherlock agreed.
The butcher continued to flex his hands and arms as if testing the strength of the men restraining him, searching for a weakness to exploit for escape.
“I shall ask again, who is your employer? What use does he have for your endeavours?”
The butcher spit at Sherlock’s feet. “I ain’t telling you a thing. He’ll have me killed if I even think of saying a word.”
“You’ve already told me enough.”
For a brief moment, the man looked scared, then his bravado returned. His chin lifted and he sneered. “You’re bluffin’.”
Lestrade signalled for his men to take the large man away. Then he turned to Sherlock. “I don’t need to know how you’ve figured it out, I just need to know who and what.”
“I’d like to know how,” Watson interjected. “Later, of course.”
“Of course,” Sherlock agreed with a small smile for his friend. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you and your readers uninformed.”
“Right, lovely.” Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we focus on this mysterious employer you keep going on about now?”
“It will be a man of great importance, in need of a large quantity of fresh blood. Doctor Hooper identified the discarded equipment found in the Smithfield Park building as that used in blood transfusions, the same equipment in this room. You saw how the bottles were packed with care. Something has change in the last few days, his demands have increased exponentially.”
Sherlock paused to consider his words. “You’re looking for a member of the peerage, someone of influence and wealth. There will be a spouse or young child who has been ill. Probabilities lean toward it being the child, a boy. He’ll be sickly and weak by this point, as indicated by his father’s desperation. The man will keep the child confined to the family home, for the boy will be too fragile to play with others of his age.”
The Inspector nodded as he wrote in his notebook, although Sherlock knew Lestrade had not followed his line of thought.
“I suspect it’s haemophilia, or something similar. A disease of the blood at any rate. The child’s health must be failing, and the blood is meant to be a bid to keep him alive. Transfusions. Possibly even attempts to find a cure, clearly not sanctioned by any reputable hospital in London.”
“That’s a rather specific list.” Watson rubbed his hands together, then blew on them for warmth. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find a man of that description.”
“Harder than you might suspect, Watson. Our man will have hidden his child’s condition to keep prying eyes from interfering with his efforts. He might even feel shame that the Royal Disease had infected his bloodline.”
Sherlock adjusted his coat and straightened to his full height. “I shall have a name for you before the end of day.”
“Just like that?” Lestrade held up his hands in defeat. “I said I didn’t want to know how, and I don’t. Just give me the name and I’ll take it from there.”
Watson waited until they were out of the tunnel, and far from curious ears, to speak again. “We will be going to the Diogenes Club to see your brother, then?”
Sherlock’s lips twisted in annoyance as he pulled on his gloves. “Unfortunately. Time is of the essence. Our man will relocate to the country and turn to another source once he discovers this one has been compromised.”
His long stride ate up the distance to the street in front of the Market, where he raised his hand to summon a carriage. “Of even more importance, I have an appointment this evening and would prefer not to be late.”
Part 1 / Part 8
Rating: M
A/N - Written for the Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration Fest. A Victorian vampire story written in several short chapters.
The Adventure of the St Bartholomew Vampire
Part 7
The railway tunnels beneath the Smithfield Meat Market echoed with distant rumbles from trains farther down the line. Most of the rail traffic beneath the market occurred in the early morning, so Lestrade and his men weren’t in constant fear of an oncoming engine as they searched the tunnels.
The Inspector had sent more than a dozen men—half of them in plain clothes—to walk through the market, looking for anyone who might fit the vague description Sherlock had been able to work out.
Tall, broad shoulders, thick arms. Despite all that he would have a pleasant, non-threatening countenance. His victims did not struggle too much (other than the last), which indicated that they were not expecting an attack until it was sprung.
Sherlock and Watson chose to accompany Lestrade into the tunnels. It was the most likely location for the butcher’s lair (to paraphrase Hooper). If they found the lair, then they only had to wait for the monster to come home to roost.
It took until mid-afternoon to discover the small door set back from the tracks. It opened to a short, unlit tunnel that terminated in a sturdy, locked door. It took the combined forces of Sherlock and Lestrade launching themselves at the door to push it off its frame, but once it swung open it was Watson who hurried through first.
The room had obviously been intended as storage for the railway. Shelving ran the length of two walls. There were hand-held lamps, jugs of oil, a pile of pristine wicks. Shovels and pick axes were propped against the shelves. Other items that Sherlock couldn’t identify by name were shoved into every open space. There was a chest against the third wall, and a case of glass bottles similar to the broken one he’d found at Smithfield Park. A smaller green bottle lay atop the chest (a cautious sniff told Sherlock the bottle contained a concoction of chlorodyne). A large sack and a pile of clothing were crumpled up in the corner, as if they had been thrown there.
Most importantly, in the centre of the small room was a table not unlike the ones found in Hooper’s morgue. Strapped to the table was an unconscious man, stripped naked and gagged. Rubber tubing stretched from the needle embedded in his arm, through a strange apparatus, to another bottle. The bottle was only half full, much to Sherlock’s relief.
While he’d been taking in the details of the room, looking for any clues as to the murderer’s identity or current location, Watson had been doing his duty as a medical man. He called out urgent instructions to Lestrade as he removed the needle and tended to the victim. “He’s breathing, but cold. His heart is beating far to fast. Cover him with something, we need to keep him warm. Quickly, use your coat, Inspector!”
Once Watson deemed the still unconscious man stable enough to be moved, a pair of constables hurriedly removed him from the small room and toward an access point further down the track. The victim would be removed to St Bartholomew’s as quickly as possible.
The chest, as Sherlock had deduced, contained additional bottles full of blood carefully packed on a thick bed of straw covering blocks of ice; likely blood taken from the girl that had been killed the evening prior.
After that it was simply a matter of positioning the rest of Lestrade’s men in the shadows and niches of the railway tunnel while Lestrade, Watson, and Sherlock lay in wait in the butcher’s lair.
No more than an hour later, he made his appearance.
Sherlock knew the exact moment the murderer realized something was amiss. His footsteps slowed and then stopped cold as he noticed the door to the storage room was hanging crooked and barely closed.
“It’s no use running,” Sherlock called out to the darkness. “Your day of reckoning is at hand.”
Beside him Lestrade sighed. “Why does it always have to turn into a theatrical production when you’re around?”
Sherlock ignored him and shoved the door out of the way, barely containing his wince as the hinges gave up and the door tumbled to the floor with a loud crack. The lamps in the storage room backlit Sherlock’s form so that he was silhouetted in the doorway.
The suspect turned and ran, only to crash into several of Lestrade’s men as they closed in around him in the small tunnel. They dragged him closer to the storage room and into the light. Sherlock could tell from the man’s appearance and body that his deduction had been correct, their butcher really was a butcher.
Lestrade began to demand answers from the man; but, to Sherlock’s frustration, he was asking all the wrong questions.
“Where’s the rest of the blood you took, you fiend? What have you done with it?” the Inspector shouted at the stubbornly silent suspect.
A young constable asked in a hushed, horrified tone, “Have you been drinking it?”
“Of course not,” Lestrade snapped as Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sheer stupidity of the many idiots hired by the Yard.
Finally, Sherlock had enough. “Who is your employer?”
“Employer?” echoed Watson, seemingly always one step or two behind.
“Yes.” Sherlock gestured toward the storage room. “Someone has been funding this man’s work. The medical grade equipment in that room is expensive, far too much for this cretin to be able to afford.” The butcher snarled, hatred twisting his strangely angelic face into something demonic.
“Judging from the dust upon the floor and the soot around the lamps, I would say the equipment was set up not long after the jumper escaped. Within two days, perhaps. Up until then he must have been mobile; setting up shop in abandoned buildings, working as quickly as possible, before dumping the bodies in the sewer or the Thames in the hopes that they would wash away without ever being discovered. Number one’s escape must have frightened his employer with the risk of exposure, spurring the move to this more secure location.”
Lestrade frowned. “What do you mean ‘up until then’? The jumper was the first victim.”
“The first you found, Inspector.” Sherlock tilted his head and studied the mutinous expression on the butcher’s face. “Yes, I’m quite certain now. More will come to light before this is all said and done.”
“Fuck.” Lestrade stomped his foot and looked as if he were tempted to punch something or someone. “Fucking hell.”
“Quite,” Sherlock agreed.
The butcher continued to flex his hands and arms as if testing the strength of the men restraining him, searching for a weakness to exploit for escape.
“I shall ask again, who is your employer? What use does he have for your endeavours?”
The butcher spit at Sherlock’s feet. “I ain’t telling you a thing. He’ll have me killed if I even think of saying a word.”
“You’ve already told me enough.”
For a brief moment, the man looked scared, then his bravado returned. His chin lifted and he sneered. “You’re bluffin’.”
Lestrade signalled for his men to take the large man away. Then he turned to Sherlock. “I don’t need to know how you’ve figured it out, I just need to know who and what.”
“I’d like to know how,” Watson interjected. “Later, of course.”
“Of course,” Sherlock agreed with a small smile for his friend. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you and your readers uninformed.”
“Right, lovely.” Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we focus on this mysterious employer you keep going on about now?”
“It will be a man of great importance, in need of a large quantity of fresh blood. Doctor Hooper identified the discarded equipment found in the Smithfield Park building as that used in blood transfusions, the same equipment in this room. You saw how the bottles were packed with care. Something has change in the last few days, his demands have increased exponentially.”
Sherlock paused to consider his words. “You’re looking for a member of the peerage, someone of influence and wealth. There will be a spouse or young child who has been ill. Probabilities lean toward it being the child, a boy. He’ll be sickly and weak by this point, as indicated by his father’s desperation. The man will keep the child confined to the family home, for the boy will be too fragile to play with others of his age.”
The Inspector nodded as he wrote in his notebook, although Sherlock knew Lestrade had not followed his line of thought.
“I suspect it’s haemophilia, or something similar. A disease of the blood at any rate. The child’s health must be failing, and the blood is meant to be a bid to keep him alive. Transfusions. Possibly even attempts to find a cure, clearly not sanctioned by any reputable hospital in London.”
“That’s a rather specific list.” Watson rubbed his hands together, then blew on them for warmth. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find a man of that description.”
“Harder than you might suspect, Watson. Our man will have hidden his child’s condition to keep prying eyes from interfering with his efforts. He might even feel shame that the Royal Disease had infected his bloodline.”
Sherlock adjusted his coat and straightened to his full height. “I shall have a name for you before the end of day.”
“Just like that?” Lestrade held up his hands in defeat. “I said I didn’t want to know how, and I don’t. Just give me the name and I’ll take it from there.”
Watson waited until they were out of the tunnel, and far from curious ears, to speak again. “We will be going to the Diogenes Club to see your brother, then?”
Sherlock’s lips twisted in annoyance as he pulled on his gloves. “Unfortunately. Time is of the essence. Our man will relocate to the country and turn to another source once he discovers this one has been compromised.”
His long stride ate up the distance to the street in front of the Market, where he raised his hand to summon a carriage. “Of even more importance, I have an appointment this evening and would prefer not to be late.”
Part 1 / Part 8