The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(74)
Our famed London fog had rolled in with a vengeance as night fell, putting hazy barriers of grey in all directions. The London docks never being entirely devoid of life, there were also the quiet murmuring sounds of a few sailors and dock watchmen, but none of them were close enough to interfere. These were all from neighbouring ships, however, for the Merry Widow itself was silent. Far off, someone was singing snatches of melody even I could barely make out, and which they, apparently, could barely remember. Even further off, the occasional foghorn lowed like ocean cattle, followed by the growl of an impending storm.
Our vigil commanded an excellent view not only of the Merry Widow, but also the long stretch of dock with ships clustered all about her like so many piglets squirming for position during feeding time. The surface of the Thames near the shore was such a thicket of stays, shrouds and mooring lines, bundled sail, swaying booms, and creaking spars that a person might have gone for miles in either direction without having to risk getting their feet wet. I saw no one on the Merry Widow, however.
I gripped Holmes’s arm and pointed. “There!”
A figure had stepped stiffly out from the narrow space between two buildings, thin, and wrapped in a raggedy olive cloak. Her hands were held awkwardly behind her, bound. Over her head sat a rough cloth sack. Under the weak light of the single dock lamp post, it could have been nearly anybody, but I knew in my heart who it had to be.
“Mary,” I whispered, trying to rise to my feet, but Holmes’s grip kept me in a crouch.
Hands pushed her forward into the light so that she crossed the dock towards the Merry Widow. The hand wrapped as it was around her slender neck looked enormous, as did the towering figure of Boucher soon revealed behind. He looked around with a cagey fury, but kept a firm grasp of his prisoner so that she could not escape.
Thorne came right behind. The glint of metal identified the pistol in his hand, even so far as to hint at the silver that I knew was inlaid on the handle. A gunslinger’s belt was wrapped around his narrow waist this time, gleaming softly with silver bullet tips that peeked out of belt loop and cartridge. Thorne’s heavy-lidded gaze swept the docks, the other ships and the rooftops, but I do not think he picked us out in the darkness. He kept to one side of Mary and Boucher, always keeping the pistol trained at Mary’s side. Lightning crackled in the sky behind them in dramatic arcs of light. Rain started falling in light drops.
“What sense does it make taking her hostage?” I whispered. “Surely if he meant to do her harm he could have done so by now.”
“I do not think,” Holmes said softly, “that Mary is the one under the hood. Thorne, you clever rascal.”
“Who else, then?” I asked, but Holmes did not answer.
Thorne turned and spoke back into the darkness of the alley.
Another woman slipped out of the alleyway, wearing a dark, nearly operatic-looking costume of twill, narrow at the waist, with a fur-trimmed hood that hid most of the features except for the occasional strand of yellow hair. Though the fog alternately hid and then disclosed her, there was nothing surreptitious about her self-assured manner as she walked calmly to join Thorne. She stopped, looking around, and slowly drew back her hood. Mary shook her blonde hair free, which was now far longer and wilder than I remembered it. Her expression was one of cruel amusement, almost alien to me, but still there was no doubt that this was my own Mary. Or, at least, this was the creature that my Mary had become. I had been very wrong about her being the prisoner, but whose face could it be under the sack?
“Holmes!” Thorne called out. “Watson! I know you’re out there. Come out where I can see you, or your little accomplice gets it!” There were a few workers on the docks who stopped their work, but none of them were close to Thorne or the rest. One even took a step in their direction, but changed his mind after Thorne pointed the gun menacingly in his direction.
“It seems,” Holmes said bitterly, standing up, “that Mrs Watson and Mr Thorne have not spent their time at Highgate idly. Our American gunslinger is mercurial and impulsive, but not entirely without some tactical acumen.” I hurriedly stood up as well, looking down into the street at our quarry.
Thorne spat a word at Boucher, and the towering vampire nodded, a motion that jerked the enormous beaver hat in what might have been a comic gesture in other circumstances. He yanked the sack off their prisoner. Her hair was wet and tangled, and she looked far more feral and hostile than I’d ever seen her, but even at this distance, there was no mistaking the red-eyed, firebrand countenance of Miss Kitty Winter.
“Don’t do it, Mr Holmes!” she shrieked. “That rotter already done for Somersby, or as good as! Shot him right in front of God and everyone and left him bleeding!”
“There is no God,” Mary said. She spoke to Kitty, but pitched her voice for us to hear, as well. “I’d think you’d know that by now. We ourselves are the incontrovertible proof of that.” She bared her teeth and moved closer to Thorne and Boucher so that the whole lot of them were in a tight bundle in the wet street below, the three of them gathered behind Kitty Winter.
I thought of that poor youth, Somersby. His family taken from him by the most violent means possible, so adamant that others should not suffer the same fate. It seemed a cruel injustice that he should be gunned down and left, dead or dying, in so cold-hearted a manner. I was shaking with anger.
“You villain,” I started. “That young man had done nothing to you!”