The Devil & Lillian Holmes (12 page)

How I wish I had the man’s courage, intellect, and loyal companion.

Here seemingly was a tale of spiritism under his nose—unless these Baltimoreans were all insane. Perhaps he should knock on Miss Holmes’s door or visit the “odd” Orleans brothers. But, no, Johnnie Moran was the safe point of entry into this mystery.

But the poor man is grief-stricken.

Damn, how he wished Bram shared his interest in the spiritism studies! A man with a full knowledge of vampire folklore would come in quite handy at the moment, either to cast it all aside as nonsense or point him in the right direction. But Bram did not share his interest and thus Arthur was left to make his own decision: Get on the train, or stay and try to see what evidence of other realms this city had to offer.

Do the sensible thing, Arthur.
The booking agent would have his hide otherwise.

But hadn’t he done the sensible thing his whole life? He’d become a physician rather than an explorer, a writer rather than a hero, a second-rate husband and perhaps a poorer father. And he wanted a chance to visit with the Society again. A few of the members, notably Congressman Coyle and Donnelly, the writer, were part of a more elite club, as he’d heard them speaking privately in a room of the congressman’s mansion.

“Where is the child?” Donnelly asked. “Dr. Schneider was to take care of all that. This is impossible! All our work gone to hell because of Pemberton’s heavy-handedness.”

“She is not a stupid woman,” Coyle answered. “And she has friends, it seems. Powerful friends.”

“Aye, but she has a very powerful enemy. Still, tell me where the child is.”

Then Arthur had been interrupted from his eavesdropping by a squealing Miss Langhan blathering on about his novels and the wonderful lecture. Had the men been speaking of Miss Lillian Holmes? Did the woman have a child? Was that the reason Schneider and Pemberton were murdered, to keep some sordid affair quiet? Sherlock would know what to do next; why didn’t his creator?

Pulled from his thoughts by a knock on the door, Arthur answered it to see a young, rail-thin man in a cheap suit of clothes.

“Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I am a reporter for the
Morning Herald
, and I wondered if you would be willing to discuss your stories with me.”

“Absolutely not, young man. I have put that work aside for a more profound calling.”

The reporter looked crushed, and then angry. “I see, and you wouldn’t be willing to discuss anything?”

“You would discuss anything?” Arthur snapped. “The weather, my dinner last night?”

“I write on commission, Mr. Doyle. I do what I have to do. If you have an opinion on Baltimore’s weather or your meal, I’ll dutifully record it.”

He needs a hot meal and employment.
How old is he, even past twenty years?
Arthur combed his hand through his hair and let out a breath. “Sorry, my good man. I’m usually not so disagreeable, I hope. Come in, and let’s see if we can work something out. That’s a difficult calling you’ve chosen.”

The young man smiled and extended his hand. “Journalism? I find it incredibly easy. Just tell the public what they should think. Once inked, an opinion becomes truth—at least until the next morning’s edition comes out.”

“I say! Then I should be careful about what opinions I express to you.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll likely change your words to suit the public’s expectations.”

“How old are you, young man?”

“Younger than most, Mr. Doyle. My name is Mencken. My friends call me H. L.”

“Well, H. L., my friends call me Doyle or Arthur, so you can take your pick. What do you think of the recent murders besieging your fair city? Isn’t that a better topic than what some novelist thinks about Baltimore?”

“I know nothing of the murders, sir, except what I read in the paper I’m trying to work for. I assume none of what I’ve seen is true.”

“So, now we do have something of interest to discuss. Come, sit, and I’ll order some dinner for us while we chat. Perhaps I can point you in some very interesting directions. And if you unravel this story, you
will
get that post at the paper.”

Mencken sat. “I imagine Mr. Holmes would solve a mystery far more quickly than I could.”

“Ah, true. I do not, however, possess Mr. Holmes’s skills. And in any case, he is dead.”

“By your hand,” the reporter accused. “Did you grow bored of him?”

“A little. Perhaps a little jealous.”

Mencken nodded. “I understand.”

Arthur examined the youth carefully. Perceptive, quick, and no doubt educated at the school of hard knocks. He’d had trouble in his life, and jealousy no doubt as well. “Yes, I think perhaps you do. How did you get to be such a cynic at so young an age, H. L.?”

“A cynic? I prefer to think of myself as a realist.”

“My boy, you are then likely never disappointed in your fellow man, as you expect so little.”

“I have said that very thing myself!”

And with that, Arthur’s decision was made. He’d made a new friend, and Baltimore felt a trifle safer already.

I never liked Boston, so this is no great shame
.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A message in blood.

Lillian imagined that her home had never been so busy, as she hadn’t properly entertained in it, ever. Entertained? She hadn’t even run her own household until she shipped Thomas and Addie to the seaside, and now to Chicago. She loathed gatherings and parties but wanted to give Aileen’s mourners a proper repast, so she had hired the grocer Eisner’s wife to drape the mirrors and prepare a banquet. She herself could barely make a proper cup of tea. No responsibilities had made her soft, she reflected, and prone to ineptitude at every normal female undertaking.

She had made a few concessions to what she considered morose traditions but put her foot down at others she considered downright barbaric: No portrait of Aileen’s corpse was allowed. Of course, in its horrid state, even Johnnie would not have wanted that. Lillian had instructed Mrs. Eisner to ensure the boys’ room remained bright and cheery, with no black bunting, and even allowed Mr. Lincoln in the house. Their lot was gloomy enough. If she were married she might look into how to adopt the boys, or at least Aileen’s brother, though that was likely not necessary. In truth she could call all the children her own and no one would care. No official would come calling; a judge would consider her plea a waste of time. The boys were disposable, and legions like them roamed the city, filled jails, and worked as little better than slaves in the factories and canneries.

Her
boys would go to school for once in their lives, she vowed; they would be literate and have adventures and gay times along with their sister Jane. But at the moment just the thought of raising three children let alone four felt beyond her ability.

She would need help but could hire it. She did not have much to offer the world, but money was in plentiful supply.

Addie, why am I rich? Can’t someone please tell me at least that much?

Her new solicitor, Bess’s cousin, couldn’t. He had bolted upright in his chair when he opened the folder of documents secured from the Jackal’s law firm. “I know you believe Mr. Pemberton could have been stealing from you, Miss Holmes,” he’d said, “but if he did, he also invested your money wisely and you are none the worse for whatever he took.”

Yes, I will hire a lot of help,
Lillian decided. What else would the money be good for?

She surveyed the parlor, where Bess made uncomfortable small talk with Kitty as if she clung to the one person she was sure wasn’t a “creature.” She’d given Sullivan and Phoebe a wide berth, as well as George and Phillip. Poor Bess, how long would she be able to sustain her composure? Still, how wonderful to enjoy her presence again!

Johnnie Moran sat quietly, politely accepting occasional attempts at conversation but without true interest. The man was numb, in shock. Lillian thought she might be as well, but that numbness was a bit better than feeling grief. George had tried to encourage her true feelings to surface, as he knew her long habit of burying her troubles. He’d held her tightly and whispered that it was quite fine to cry. But the tears had stopped coming. Lillian only felt fury and knew not how to express that.

Her medicine had helped calm her a bit, and the voices had once again subsided. Yet, George had barely left her side for a moment, which made her anxious. She knew he watched her carefully, no doubt afraid she’d create more of a mess. Every hour brought more bad news, more worry, and the desire for more medicine. At least Addie and Thomas were safe. A telegram had announced their happy arrival in Illinois.

Lillian gathered up the boys and a plate of cookies and ushered them up the stairs to Aileen’s room, now theirs. George and Phillip had replaced the boys’ simple pallets with real beds, and even created a spot for Abraham on the floor with an old blanket. Lillian had quickly made other changes, removing feminine accoutrements with blinding speed so Aileen’s personal effects wouldn’t chisel away at this charade of normalcy she’d struggled to maintain. Except for the lingering lavender of Aileen’s ghostly presence, she’d made the boys a home of their own.

Billy O’Shaunessy, the oldest, pulled at her skirt and she stopped on the staircase. “Yes?”

“Mr. Lincoln must go out, Miss Holmes. Just for a little bit, if you take my meaning.”

“Yes, Billy, I take your meaning. Don’t be long.”

“Can’t we go out and play for a little?” Billy’s brother Darby asked.

Lillian was taken aback. Play? His sister was dead and he wanted to play? Was this normal?

“Do you want to play as well, Paddy Moran?”

Paddy shook his head, but slowly, as if he weren’t sure of the proper answer, and when she looked back Lillian saw in Billy’s eyes a child far wiser than his twelve years, far wiser than she’d been at his age.

“Well, it won’t do for the neighbors to see you having a merry time today. You must keep to the yard and not roll a hoop or kick a ball in the alleyway, is that clear?”

Billy squeezed her hand, which squeezed her heart. “Thank you, miss. I think it’s for the best.”

“I suppose it is, Billy. You are in charge of keeping things quiet.”

The boys were off in a flash.

Good,
Lillian thought. She now had a chance for a last inspection of the room, to ensure there was nothing left to cause anguish to the boys.

She carried the plate of cookies inside Aileen’s old chamber, but she must have dropped them, as she heard the plate break on the floor. It sounded miles away. On the mirror over the chest of drawers, scrawled in blood so fresh that she could smell it—and to her horror, it smelled appealing—were the words I HAVE YOUR CHILD.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Bonds between brothers.

George believed the truth of the note in blood. He lied to Lillian, told her it was part and parcel of Madam Lucifer’s cruel tactics and likely false, but he knew she didn’t believe him.

He’d done his maker’s duty in the first weeks after her transformation, teaching her Atil’s commandments, which forbade breeding. She’d questioned the obvious error in logic. “If vampires bear no children, why must reproduction be forbidden?”

“Vampire and mortal unions. Tales of such abound, although I never met a child of such parentage. In divine retribution for the mating of Atil and Ursula, whose children are our Elders, the offspring of such unions are said to be caught between this world and the next, doomed to insanity. Merely folktales to scare young vampires, I imagine.”

George had never considered trying to father a child on a mortal. The paternal gene had not seemed to lurk within him, and why would he create something so frail and helpless? Oddly, though, he had recently been taken unawares by strange longings, imagined raising a mortal child with Lillian, imagined finally being a father, however unworthy. Lillian’s daughter had seemed the perfect opportunity, perhaps to carve a bit of normalcy from the insanity their lives had become. But Madam Lucifer had taken that dream as well. If they found little Jane, she was likely frozen in childhood and monstrous, having lived a tortured existence with the Devil herself. He wondered if Lillian had ever considered the possibility. Her child might no longer be an apple-cheeked angel.

It did not matter, though. Not with the larger problems at play. So George now sat with Sullivan and his brother in Lillian’s parlor, wracking his brain for a path of action.

“But
how
, George? How could Marie have known about Lillian’s child?”

“It’s on the edge of my brain, brother. I simply
feel
it to be true. Something about that lawyer and doctor of hers. And do you recall that Annaluisa claimed to know something of Lil’s mother? Perhaps Marie tortured it out of her. Perhaps Annaluisa knew something of the child as well.”

“I am not smart enough to put it together,” Phillip said, giving up. “What is your plan?”

“Plan? Do I look like I have a plan?”

Chauncey rose and looked out the window. He kept his back to them. “Is this how it is with you two now? Chattering fools?”

George was relieved he had moved away; the man made his skin crawl whenever he was physically close. “Yes, Sullivan, we are chattering fools. What would you have us do?”

“Find Marie. She is not so far. I feel it.”

“You feel it? Because of your bond?”

Chauncey turned and shot him an annoyed look. “Does she seem the sort of woman who would release me,
Grandpapa?”

“Is that why you dislike me so, because I turned her? How could I know what she would become?”

Chauncey laughed, a low rumble. “No, George. It was your arrogance and self-absorption that put me off. Many years ago.”

“He’s changed a good deal, Chauncey,” Phillip remarked. “You’d be amazed.”

“I’ll believe that when he releases
your
bond. Now, I’m taking Phoebe out for a nice meal. Stop your childishness and find Marie if you will not send me to her alone. Then we’ll deal with her. I’d like to quit this city.”