19AN: This is my first Sherlock Holmes story. Please tell me if you like it or not and why.
Disclaimer: I cannot own Sherlock Holmes since I was born in 1985.
Now Enjoy "Milady Vampire".
Prologue: Dark Moon
Lunar Age: 0 (zero). Wednesday 17-12-1884
It had become late. Holmes and I were returning home from a client who had shown his gratitude by inviting us to his personal loge in the Royal Opera House… by foot, for our cab broke just a few metres from our home in Baker Street.
"Really, cabs these days, I wonder how they keep their customers, Holmes."
"By–"
A suffocated cry of a woman, followed by the sound of something falling to the ground cut the silence of the night, just in front of us. Without a second thought, the two of us ran into the direction of the sound.
What we saw was likewise disturbing and fascinating. In the twilight in front of 221A, two shadowy figures were intertwined in a twisted way which spoke of no good. Blood was dripping to the floor as the smaller of the two had deeply embedded his jaws into the taller one's shoulder. "What the…" Startled by the sound of my friend's voice right behind him, the assailant let his victim go and, in a flashing somersault, he was gone.
With a choked and miserable sound, the victim fell backwards into Holmes, leaving a red smear of blood on his white shirt. Now we could see the unfortunate soul who happened to be hurt on our doorstep. "Oh my goodness… A woman…" No matter how pale and blood-smeared she was the figure which, if she would have stood upright tower even my companion, was a beautiful woman with dark hair and a delicate frame. "What happened here, Holmes?"
My friend however wasn't listening at all; instead he prevented our fateful charge from meeting the cold street floor. "What did he do to you…?" Without averting his gaze from her, he said: "The case on the floor, Watson, pick it up please."
I collected said case from the floor while he gently lifted the unknown female from the ground, carrying her to our door. "The door, my dear Watson…"
"Oh, yes…" Feeling rather stupid, I hurried to our home's entrance, unlocking it. Something was really out of place, but first, we had an injured to take care of. With Holmes right at my tail, I went up the stairs and unlocked the door of our lodgings. Meanwhile, my friend's clothing had been soaked a great deal with that poor woman's blood at his right sleeve and chest. After placing the mysterious case on the sofa, I hurried to get my emergency bag and came just in time as my companion placed her on the bed in the guest room. "Allow me."
"Of course… I am going to change clothes." he answered and left the room.
He might have been the stronger one of us, but this was not a matter of deduction yet nor was his physical skill needed anymore. No matter who she was, she was injured, and judging from the blood stains on my friend's full evening dress, she lost enough blood to be a critical case. This really was not a job for Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, but for me. Quickly but carefully I removed the long black cloak and the ripped silken shirt of my patient. Astonishingly, she didn't wear a corset, but a corsage. From the amount of blood spilled, I had presumed a larger, much viler wound, but all I could find were marks similar to a tiger's bite and some long scratches. "How bizarre…" All these wounds revolved around her right shoulder, the bite marks on front and back of it, into the vein under the clavicle. Hurrying, I cleansed the wounds and bandaged her. "Phew… all done. Good Lord, what are you doing?"
After changing into more clean and comfortable clothes and returning, my companion had taken said clothes and had begun to search through them for any evidence of the identity of our guest. What he found however, was not satisfying, judging by his mild, soundless cursing. Only one word was audible, "Women!" Without turning his gaze to me, he answered: "I am trying to find out who our guest is… ah!" Triumphantly, he pulled out of one of the oilskin pockets of the cloak a fine silver watch. "Finally a clue. Let's go to the study."
As we sat in our armchairs, he examined the watch. "That is not a woman's watch…"
"Can you open it?"
He grunted in disappointment. "No. It's locked. But, judging from the watch and her clothing, our secretive guest is not a poor member of London's society. Most likely, she is the daughter of one of our more established families. And she is a lover of music."
"How do you know that?" I asked, perplexed.
He gave the watch to me and picked up the case from earlier. "Look at it, feel its weight. This watch is not made of silver, but of platinum, and there is a coat of arms engraved on both sides of it. It lies within the bounds of possibilities that the watch was originally of a male relative." He inspected the case. "The same coat of arms is on this case. And remember her clothing. A commoner wouldn't be able to buy herself a silken everyday shirt, a jacket and skirt of Oxford wool cloth and a coat of this quality. Also, her shoes are handmade."
I stared at the watch. It reminded me of something. "Wait…"
"Hum? Something I oversaw?"
"Well, I've seen this coat of arms on her before… She wears a necklace with the very same one on a medallion. It looked like enamel. What is this case anyway?"
Said case was about three feet long, seven inches high and one-and-a-half feet in width. "For a suitcase it's too small and for a violin case it's too long and wide…" Holmes turned it so that the side on which it was to be opened faced him. "By the measures and its weight, I bet it's a viola transportation case. And she truly values her instrument."
"And where did you get that, my friend?" Really, that man beat me everyday if it was not about medicine.
Chuckling, he took the watch from me and gave me the assumed viola case. "Try to open it."
I did as he said, but a quick gaze to the main fastener showed me why it was a futile attempt. "A seal lock… and it's…"
"The very same coat of arms as the watch and the medallion you described. We may most likely exclude the possibility that the case is of the attacker. Our guest is truly not a poor one. A young lady on which we found the very same coat of arms trice. And she is unmarried."
"She did not wear a ring?"
Holmes got up and began searching his books. "No. Would you be so kind and please check her eye colour? And don't forget to bring that medallion, please."
Puzzled, I went back to the guest room, turned the lamp higher and opened her left eye lid. Her gaze was unmistakeably that of someone unconscious. But the eye which caught mine was of the strangest colour I've ever seen. Astonished, I closed the eye again gently. Carefully picking up the medallion, I returned to the study where my friend stood at his desk with the newest volume of »Burke's Peerage and Landed Gentry«, trying to decipher the coat of arms from the watch.
"Do you have it?" I nodded and stepped beside him, placing the medallion on the book. "Thank you… it is truly not easy without the colours…"
Noticing a detail on the crest, I sighed. "Hmm… but it is not going to be easy anyway. The rank crown is that of a British Viscount. And there are many of that rank in our realm."
"True enough. But it also limits the number of families, for only the highest rank will be depicted in the coat of arms. Let's see… A Viscount with a plain black shield with a silver raven on a rocky hill in profile, soaring up… the bird presents a stick or something like that in its beak…"
I took a look at it with the help of Holmes' convex lens. "Looks like a Welsh leek to me."
Holmes arched his brows. "I've never seen a patriotic Welsh in our times. Let me see." He took the lens from my hand. "But nevertheless, you are right, it's a leek. This must be an older coat of arms then… it was certainly not granted after the last Act of Union. Most likely it is far older." Flipping through the pages of the almanac and various other kinds of books on heraldry and giving the lens back to me, he asked, "Can you make out the motto?"
Again, I examined the medallion. "Hmm… »Nil admirari. Nil desperandum. Nil dedendum. « That's really… rare."
"Indeed, but it really shortens the list… Ah!" With triumph gleaming in his eyes, my friend opened the almanac on the file of the Marquess of Cardiff. "There they are…"
However, I was sceptical. "Really? Just by mentioning the motto?"
"No, because it was this particular motto… one of the longest in the realm, the motto of the Llewellyn family of Cardiff. Look." He placed the medallion beside the imprinted coat of arms depicted beside the Llewellyns' entry.
A single glance told me that he was right again. They were identical. "Very well, so our guest is most likely a Welsh peer's daughter."
Holmes darted his eyes to me. "I doubt it. The current titleholder is a woman of twenty-five years, according to Burke's and Debrett's."
"Wait… our guest is a woman of circa twenty-five years!" I exclaimed.
Holmes nodded. "So you noticed too. I think she is the the incumbent Marquess of Cardiff, The Most Honourable Ceridwen Astoria Llewellyn. At least the last revision of these books say that the Llewellyn family is practically extinct, with the last title holder being its sole survivor. I need to think." He picked up his pipe, lit it and sat down in his favourite armchair in the adjoining living room.
I glanced over the article. "How ironic… their motto surely suits them. »Never wonder, never desperate, never forfeit. « Family traces back to medieval times… But their letter patent is truly unusual too… absolute primogeniture and the right to choose the heir." Puzzled, I went down to the part of the entry on Lady Llewellyn herself. "Good Lord!"
"What is it now? Read it aloud."
"You were right in everything. Ceridwen Astoria Llewellyn is known in London society for three things: First, she is six feet four inches tall; Second, her infernal temper and Third, she is the least eligible bachelor girl in all London. As I checked her eye colour, I thought first that they are dark blue but they have a reddish hue…" I trailed off.
"Occupation?"
I scrolled down. "Musician… Not quite what you expect of a young peeress." As if it was not puzzling enough to live with my friend and companion, our involuntary guest was one of the established talents of music.
"This would explain the Viola case. And why not? It certainly surpasses attending the season for looking for a husband." He got up again, putting off his pipe and fetched one of our collections of Assorted Sensational Literature from his desk. After a few minutes, he showed me an article of The Times from a few weeks ago. "Look. It is definitely her."
The article was a review on a Cello concert in late November. The author of the article was rather puzzled that a Woman was able to play the cello better than the men in the orchestra. I turned to my friend, the almanac on Peerage in hands. "But why was she here in Baker Street? Burke's says that she lives at 145 Piccadilly when she's in London."
"For this question I lack information, unfortunately." He shook his head. "We first should try to get her well enough to answer some questions."
"Are you not going to inform Scotland Yard?"
"That would be about as wise as leaving her in the street. Whoever attacked her knew her ways and the ones of the Police… and he had no fear of them. Just by chance we were able to stop him… we disturbed him." Knowing my friend, the only visible sign of his frustration were his lips which he was pressing together. "But it truly makes no sense, she has no enemies, neither political, nor by blood or on stage. So who would want her death?"
"This is beyond my understanding." I got up and placed the book on the couch table. Afterwards, I rang for Mrs Hudson.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"Remember, she is a lady, and no-one of us got a nightshirt for her. I'll ask Mrs Hudson to dress her for the night." Sometimes, I really wondered what he was thinking of, clearly not of things which are as obvious as a nightshirt.
Mrs Hudson tapped in, dressed for the night already. "You rang, gentlemen?"
I turned to the landlady. "Forgive me for the late hour, Mrs Hudson, but… well, see for yourself." After showing her our guest and a short explanation (leaving out who she exactly was), she just nodded in understanding and rushed to her own rooms. A few minutes later, our guest lied in bed, properly dressed for the night. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."
She just smiled. "It was nothing, Doctor. I hope the poor thing will be better soon enough. Good night, gentlemen." With that, she was off.
The man in the living room however was the complete opposite of myself now. A nervous energy was cumulating itself around my friend while my only thoughts were now getting out of my full evening dress and my bed. "Holmes, I know that you are not going to go to sleep anyway, so you could also do me a favour."
Stopping his nervous pacing, he faced me again. "Which is?"
"Watch her keenly for me, will you? It would simplify matters if you do. If anything gets worse, wake me please."
"Of course. Good night." And so he was gone.
The rapping of a chair told me that he really did as he was said. "Good night to you too. And also to you, Milady." Afterwards, I went to bed.
AN: In Astronomy, Lunar Age is the number of days passed after the new moon/dark moon, making the new moon Lunar age 0.
A Seal lock is a lock in which you press a metal or stone seal (usually a seal ring) as key, making them difficult to open by other means.
The Date is an actual New moon, Look: . ?sitedetails&linkcalendar
To you, Addy-kun, THANK YOU for your advice on Victorian English.