Tales of WID 72 #7 The Mystery of the Missing Blood
Sherlock Holmes looked over the crime scene. There was a remarkable lack of blood both in the body and on the ground around it. The second was not the surprising, since the only open wounds where two small holes on the neck. But the first meant that something had been done with the blood. That made this the sixth example of this in as many nights. Somebody was collecting blood, but to what purpose, he could not hazard a guess. “There were no witnesses?” he asked the police constable, William Whittaker. “No witnesses,” the constable said. “There haven’t been any witnesses for any of these murders.” “Most curious,” Sherlock said. “Clearly the murderer knows what he is doing, and how to do it when no one will see.” “I know you’re retired, but we could really use your help on this.” “Yes, clearly,” Sherlock said. “And this case does seem quite curious, so I will be willing to assist.” “Thank you, sir. We greatly appreciate it.” “Don’t thank me yet, there is still much work to do. What times were the bodies found?” “They’ve mostly been found in the mornings, one in the afternoon but in a location where it could have been there for longer. And we have been able to determine that most of them were seen the previous evening.” “So, nighttime killings,” Sherlock said. “That is not at all unexpected, although I wonder if there might be something more to it than just the convenience of the dark.” “Like what?” “I don’t know yet, but there’s something about this that seems off.” “We have bodies that have been emptied of large amounts of blood. That seems a bit more than just off to me.” “Indeed.” After returning to his home, Sherlock sat down in his chair and began considering the crime scene in his mind. He had seen some pretty gruesome murders before, but nothing like this. The missing blood especially, it was like no other case before, at least none that he had encountered. Perhaps his brother would know something about this, but he would rather not have to talk with Mycroft if he did not have to. They had not spoken in a while, and had not parted on particularly good terms. In addition, Sherlock had heard that his brother was increasingly busy with some big new project as of late, the details of which were exceedingly secret. Presumably it was related to the war. While Sherlock was thinking things over, he had not even noticed as he stood up and started pacing. He only noticed as he stopped in front of his bookcase. He grabbed a few books that seemed like they might be of use. Some medical texts, a book on cults, and one on ancient rituals. Any of them might prove to be useful, so he started looking through them for any ideas. Sherlock suddenly woke, surrounded by books. “Aha!” he exclaimed. He picked up one of the books that was laying next to him. Not a textbook though, it was a novel, one from Watson’s collection, all of which he had inherited. Sherlock had never had much interest in fiction, but he had not found himself able to part with any of these. This one in particular featured a man who drank blood to survive. It was a ridiculous notion, but what if the killer had read it and was not in his right mind. That was not much of a lead, it might not even be correct, but when there was a lack of evidence, you sometimes had to follow the strange ideas, and see if they took you anywhere. Sherlock started skimming through the novel. If the killer was basing his identity on this, there might be a clue as to where he would be hiding, or how he would be operating. Sherlock walked through the city that night. He was sticking to the darker parts of the city, the places were where the killer was more likely to strike. The book had not offered a lot of assistance on where he should look, although it would potentially be of help if he actually encountered the killer, assuming he was indeed copying the behaviour from it. So far it had been a quiet night. That was not too surprising, Sherlock thought. There was no reason to assume he would strike every night, and no reason to assume this was even the area where he would strike. As Sherlock continued walking, he also started thinking about the other assumptions he had been making. For instance, he was assuming it was a man based on the size and placement of the wounds on the dead body, and the average sizes of men and women. As he was thinking about the body he remembered something. While the neck wounds where the blood had been drained were the more obvious, there were also bruises, and their placement and type indicated a style of fighting he had encountered before. But there were only a small number of people who used it, even fewer here in England. The only practitioner of it he had encountered in the country was dead. Although he himself had also been thought to be dead after their final encounter. It was not much of a lead, but there was no good lead here. Whoever was behind this was good at covering their tracks, another thing that hinted at that individual. The next day, Sherlock was going over property ownership records for the town. It was a decent sized town, so there was a lot to go through. But he was starting with the large houses, as if his theory was correct, that is where the person would be. After about an hour, he came upon information on a house that had been recently purchased, about two weeks ago, just before the murders had started. It was on the edge of town, and the name of the buyer was listed as Jack Joule. That could not be a coincidence. This was almost assuredly who he thought it was, and even if not, it was someone who knew him, and wanted to be found. Which meant that if Sherlock went there he would be walking into a trap. He knew that, but he also knew that his opponent would know that he knew that. So there was nothing else to do, but to spring the trap. Sherlock knocked on the door, and waited. It was not long before the door was opened by a servant. “Mister Holmes,” the servant said. “The master has been expecting you. Please, come in.” “Thank you,” Sherlock said as he followed the servant inside. The foyer, while large and impressive, was fairly plain and lacking in decoration, not even any windows. The servant lead him down a hallway, whose walls were equally bare. “In here,” the servant said, gesturing at a door. “The master will be with you shortly.” “Thank you,” Sherlock said as he entered what turned out to be a library. And unlike what he had so far seen, the walls of this room were full. There was a vast collection of books in here. Sherlock started walking along one side of the room, looking at all of the titles on display. Some he recognized, but most he did not. These books were from all over the world, and a variety of different times, covering a large amount of topics. “Admiring my collection, Mister Holmes?” “It is quite impressive, Moriarty,” Sherlock said as he turned around. “Also quite impressive that you survived.” “We were both thought to have died that day,” James Moriarty said. Strangely, he looked no older than the last time Sherlock had seen him. “Is it really so surprising that I would have survived as well.” “I did not say it was surprising, just impressive. And I see you are now here to get revenge.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Then why the murders?” Sherlock asked. “They were clearly committed by you, but that seems out of character for you to be killing en masse. Personally, I mean, don’t you usually have underlings for that?” “So, you thought it was just to draw you out?” James asked. “You must be out of practice, spending all of your time with bees instead of people. I mean, I expected you to be lagging behind, but not to this extent.” “Well, no matter the reason, now that I know it was you who committed the murders, I can have you arrested.” “Can you now. What proof do you have that it was me? That the bruises are consistent with a form of martial arts that I know? Really Sherlock, you know that won’t be enough.” “Maybe not, but I will find something that will be.” Sherlock returned to his home. He had to consider what to do next. If Moriarty was committing these murders himself, there was a reason for that. He clearly still commanded considerable wealth, as evidenced by his home, so it seemed unlikely he would be unable to afford thugs to do his dirty work. It might be that he wanted to commit them personally for one reason or another. He denied that it was for revenge against him, but that could be a lie, or he might be out for revenge against his victims for some reason. This was a small enough town that the victims mostly all had connections, but Sherlock had not noticed any connections that would have made them enemies of one such as Moriarty. Or perhaps, Sherlock thought back to the novel, perhaps his earlier theory about it was correct. It was possible that while Moriarty had not died during their last encounter, he had gone mad as a result of it. Maybe he even thought he had died, and believed he had come back as a creature of the night. There had been no windows in the house. At the time Sherlock had thought it curious, but it may indicate more. And then there was the fact that Moriarty had not seemed to have aged. Makeup perhaps, to maintain the delusion? Unfortunately, he did not have enough to go to the police yet. What little he had would simply cause them to get in the way of the investigation if he told them. That night, Sherlock hid in some bushes near to Moriarty’s home, from which he could wait, and watch. For the first two hours, he was just waiting, but then, at midnight exactly, he noticed the door being opened, and someone coming out of it, and going down the street. The individual was wearing a cloak, with a hood over their head, but the person was the right size and shape to be Moriarty. Sherlock followed behind, doing his best to keep out of sight. The odd thing was that all of the murders so far had happened inside the town, and this individual was leaving town. It could be a decoy, Sherlock really wished he still had someone he could trust so he did not have to be doing everything himself. He decided to continue following this individual, as they went further and further out of town, until eventually they found a tree stump along the side of the road, upon which they sat down. Sherlock was not sure what to make of this, but after about ten minutes an automobile pulled up. Sherlock could not see who was driving it, but he did see the person he was following pull down their hood before getting in. It was not Moriarty, but even still, Sherlock was glad to have followed this person, as he instantly recognized him. It was one of the murder victims, the one he had been shown the previous day, which meant this case had just become a lot more interesting. “You want to what?” William asked. “I would like to see the bodies of all of the murder victims,” Sherlock said. “Surely that should not be an issue.” “Well, you see, about that. They bodies have all gone missing, except for the most recent.” “Indeed,” Sherlock said. “And you did not think to inform me of this development?” “Well, you see, it did not seem relevant to solving the case, and we…” “You did not want to be embarrassed by admitting to this, but everything that happens is relevant. When did they disappear?” “They have tended to disappear the night after they get brought in here.” “Indeed, and have you tried putting people in place to watch over them?” “We have, but we have limited manpower, and can’t watch every entrance.” “Then perhaps you should be having someone watching the bodies themselves,” Sherlock said. “In fact, I volunteer to watch the most recent one tonight.” That night, Sherlock was in the morgue, staying hidden under a table, from which he could see where the body was lying. And then he watched and waited. One hour passed, without anything happening, and then a second, still with nothing. Then during the third hour, he noticed something, as the corpse lying on the table suddenly sat up. He watched as the individual stood up and started walking around. There was initially a bit of confusion to the movements, as if he was surprised to be alive again. Sherlock went over drugs in his mind that could simulate death. But none of which he was aware would produce an effect like this. Especially with the amount of blood loss the individual had suffered, it would be impossible. And when you had ruled out the impossible, whatever remained, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. The truth then was that Sherlock was dealing with the undead, specifically Vampires. After returning to his home, Sherlock started looking through his books for anything on Vampires. The novel, Dracula, had certainly provided a lot of information, but it was a novel so who knew how much of it was even accurate. Unfortunately, there were few other books Sherlock had on the matter. There were a few mythology texts that mentioned them, but they gave wildly different accounts. Most agreed that Vampires did not like the sunlight, although they varied on whether it harmed them, or simply prevented them from using their powers. Many said that religious symbols such as the cross worked on them, as well as holy water, but Sherlock wondered if that might just be dogma. Several also mentioned garlic, which Sherlock found curious. A stake to the heart also came up in a few of them, which was intriguing. Stakes to the heart tended to kill most things, but would it work on something already dead? Either way, Sherlock wanted to be as prepared as possible, so he gathered up garlic, wooden stakes, and crosses, as he prepared for his next meeting with Moriarty. Unfortunately he was unable to obtain any holy water on such short notice. It was the middle of the afternoon as Sherlock returned to Moriarty’s house. He knocked on the door, and waited until it was answered by the same servant as he has seen the previous visit. The servant, at least, seemed to have no issue with direct sunlight. “Mister Holmes, welcome back,” the servant said. “Please follow me.” Sherlock followed the servant to the library again, and then waited as the servant went to get Moriarty. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Moriarty asked as he entered the library. “Do you think you can take me down yet?” “I can’t have you arrested yet,” Sherlock said. “Although I imagine that’s probably not the best way to deal with you, in any case.” “Have you come here to kill me then?” Moriarty asked. “Because we previously tried to kill each other, and yet here we are, both alive.” “One of us is alive, at any rate.” “Ah, so you are finally starting to catch up then. That’s good, as much as I was enjoying toying with you, it was somewhat pathetic on your part.” Sherlock took a crucifix out of his pocket, and held it up as he advanced on Moriarty, who simply laughed. “That has no power over me,” Moriarty said. “I mean really Sherlock, surely you can do better than that.” Sherlock took out a clove of garlic and threw it at Moriarty. It hit him in the hand, where it caused a slight burn, causing Moriarty to hiss in pain, but that was it. Sherlock used the moment to rush at him with a stake, and attempt to drive it into his heart, but Moriarty was able to easily grab Sherlock’s arm and twist it, causing Sherlock to drop the stake. He then threw Sherlock to the ground. “You are an old man, much older then when we last met,” Moriarty said. “I have continued to grow wiser with time, but my body is still at it’s peak, and even better in fact with my vampiric strength.” “Even if you kill me, someone will stop you,” Sherlock said. “My orders here are not to merely kill people. I am turning people, building an army.” “Even if you turn me, I will not serve you.” “Perhaps, perhaps not. Most Vampires have no choice but to serve who turns them. Some can fight it, but not easily, and a very select few are completely immune. I am curious as to which you are. If you are the first, that would be ideal, but even if you were the second, I could have people watching you, to ensure your full compliance.” Sherlock stood up as Moriarty was advancing on him. He took out some more garlic, and threw it at Moriarty, before making a run for the door. He exited the library, and found the servant right outside the door. Sherlock pushed him aside with little difficulty, and kept running, until he was outside in the sunlight. As soon as Sherlock returned to his home, he made sure all of the blinds were open, to allow as much sunlight inside as possible. It was unlikely any Vampires would come here during the day, but better safe than sorry. That encounter had not gone the way Sherlock had hoped, but it had still been quite enlightening. Moriarty was working for someone else, whoever had turned him. He could clearly fight it to some extent, but there were people around who were ensuring that he followed orders. This was so much bigger than just the murders. As much as Sherlock did not want to, he realized that this was the point where he needed to inform his brother of what was happening here.
