The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(77)

“You have to know that’s just a story I told the boy, Quincey,” Mary said quickly.

“Harlot,” Boucher rumbled. “I said we should never trust harlots.” He flung a gasping Miss Winter to one side and turned a murderous countenance on Mary. Kitty Winter stumbled towards the edge of the dock. With her hands tied, she couldn’t get her balance and teetered near the edge, her face a perfect vision of horror.

“Lord, Mr Holmes, don’t let me drown!” she wailed.

I sprang and caught her just before she stumbled her way into the Thames.

“Not the river,” she sobbed. “Sweet Lord, not the river. I can’t swim.”

“You don’t have to swim, Kitty,” I said. “You’re safe now.” I pulled her away from the edge and she sobbed into my shoulder.

Boucher had spun to face Mary, his great hands flexing eagerly. He stalked her now.

“Kill you, harlot,” he grated. “Kill you like I should have months ago, when Morris first found your worthless harlot carcass back in Herefordshire.”

“I don’t think so,” Mary said, her eyes flashing as she lifted the barrel of a snub-nosed revolver. “That’s far enough.”

“That little pop-gun?” Boucher said. “You’re going to need—”

The crack of a gun went off, but it wasn’t Mary’s gun. In fact, Mary looked a little surprised.

It was Morris’s Colt. The gun discharged thunder and smoke, not once, but twice, then again and again until Morris had emptied the entire cylinder into Boucher’s huge back. Boucher staggered with each shot, gasping, but did not fall. He turned disbelieving eyes back onto the face of his comrade and assassin.

“Quincey?” he said. “You’d do this… for her? For her?” Tendrils of foul, acrid smoke curled off his back, the silver burning with horrific ferocity through the vampire’s skin and flesh.

“Afraid so,” Morris said, calmly opening the cylinder and letting the spent casings fall onto the deck. He fed fresh ones into the cylinder, even as he gauged the amount of life left in the smouldering vampire in front of him. The crowd of onlookers started to back away, milling about in terrified confusion, but were too far away to interfere in any case. The weather had started to pick up, a thin wind tearing at the fog, but not yet dispersing it entirely.

“Keep your hands empty, Holmes,” Mary snapped, pointing her own pistol at us.

Boucher groaned and stumbled, still refusing to fall despite the wounds from half a dozen silver bullets. His hands clasped loosely at the air. He moved shakily closer to Morris just as the gunslinger snapped his reloaded cylinder shut. But there was no need to fire again as Boucher stopped suddenly near the edge of the dock. He swayed one last time, then collapsed bonelessly into a heap. It took only a gentle nudge from the heel of Morris’s cowboy boot to send Boucher’s newly made corpse into the brown water of the Thames.

“Come, Maggie,” Morris said, holding out his hand. “We have a ship to catch.” A deep roll of thunder came in from the north behind him and the wind picked up again, the brewing of a new storm.

“You’re not angry?” Mary said, looking at him sideways. The barrel of her pistol still kept the three of us covered.

“Angrier than a hornet’s nest,” Morris said, “even though I know you wouldn’t have gone through with it. But some things are worth fighting for. Worth killing for, too.” He reached out his hand. “Come on, Maggie.” The American’s reaction was inexplicable to me, but there was no doubting his sincerity.

Mary looked down at the spot where Boucher had gone down into the water. “It wasn’t much of a life anyway,” she said, and that secret smile was back on her face. “We’ve killed better for less, haven’t we?”

“That,” Morris said, “would have a lot to do with why we both need to get out of London. Come on!” He reached again.

She took his hand and they both stepped onto the gangplank and ascended up into the ship. All the while, both pistols remained pointed in our direction. Rain sprinkled onto my face. We had yet to see any sign of crew on the vessel and I began to wonder if they were all in hiding or inexplicably absent. Either way, I could not imagine Mary and Morris crewing the ship by themselves, but that thought didn’t seem to have occurred to either of them.

Morris kicked away the gangplank as soon as they reached the deck, and it fell with a heavy splash. Only two lines held the Merry Widow in place, which Morris untied, so it seemed some preparations had been made for departure, but none of the sails were furled. They wouldn’t go far just drifting away with the tide, but the ship slowly pulled away from the dock, scraping briefly against one of the nearby docked boats before pulling free and moving deeper into the Thames.

“Come, Watson!” Holmes said. “Quickly!” He dashed across the dock, towards one of the boats alongside the Merry Widow, jumping across the narrow gap between dock and deck.

I glanced down briefly to make certain Miss Winter was in no further danger.

“Don’t worry about me,” Kitty Winter said. “I’ll be up in a moment. It’ll be more than some rough handling that does for Kitty Winter. Just don’t ask me to go on no boat. And, Doctor… thank you.” She lifted her tied wrists to her mouth and bit down. She’d have herself free in a moment or two.