The Devil & Lillian Holmes (13 page)

Chauncey left, and George let out a deep breath. He also noticed Phillip relax.

“Sullivan may have stopped eating his own kind, but I don’t like being around him. Not at all,” George’s brother whispered, as if the dark-skinned vampire could still hear them. “If only we could trust him to destroy Marie alone.”

George nodded in agreement, uncomfortable that Chauncey had mentioned his and Phillip’s bond. But generous Phillip, he knew, would not bring the topic up.

“So, how is Lillian taking this?”

“How do you suppose? She’s ingesting that poison again, and I have no idea how her body doesn’t reject it. Bad enough when she was mortal, but when I took a sip from her one night long ago…”
Not so long ago, Georgy. Not really.
“It nearly made me pass out. I can handle a bit of liquor at times—as you can, as she can—but these opiates…”

I must go through that again with her?
he asked himself tiredly.
Convince her to give it up? Yes, I must. Anything and everything for her. She would do as much for me.

And he deserved much less.

To Phillip he said, “It is not the greatest problem, and I’m loath to distance her further over it. It is the nature of such indulgences, as you witnessed with me. There are no guarantees that any time will be the last.”

“Mother sucked that lust for drink out of you.” Phillip shook his head. “So we sit and watch Lillian pine away, and we wait for Marie to attack us.”

“I am not pining away.” Lillian stood in the doorway, in her boy’s clothing, her pistol holstered on her hip.

“You are not going out to ride
tonight,
Lil?”

George stood and held out his hand to silence his brother.

“I am, Phillip. I would like George to join me. You may come also if you like, but I’m afraid there is only room for one other on my transport, so you will have to fly.”

“Go back to bed, Lil,” George said.

He regretted the words as soon as he uttered them. Lillian narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms and looked for all the world like the woman who intrigued him so much the night they met. If she were the petulant sort, she’d be stomping her foot or throwing a vase at him. He’d ducked many such missiles in his lifetime, and he’d deserved every one.

He quickly rescinded the command. “I didn’t mean to tell you what to do. I care about you, Lil.”

“You have wanted to tell me what to do many times and have shown great restraint to this point. You are forgiven, as I care about you as well. Will you come with me, or must I search alone? I would have your help, but only if it is given willingly.”

“I will come with you. Where are we going?”

“We are paying a visit to Mr. Conan Doyle. And when we are finished speaking with him, we will visit each member of that damned Learned Order of Scoundrels to which the Jackal belonged. Someone knows where Jane is, and I will wring the truth from their throats.”

George stared into Lillian’s eyes and saw danger there, a danger he had tasted many times but repented, one sweet peril of immortal strength and power. “Be careful, Lillian, or you may not be much better than your foe. Don’t take innocents down with the guilty. I could live with that. You could not. At least, not yet. In time, perhaps. But I would bet you become like my brother: a lifelong do-gooder.”

“Damn, George, be easy on the woman. These are hard times for her,” Phillip said.

“He is easy on me, Phillip.” Lillian furrowed her brow, seeming to consider. Then: “I care not about anything but finding Jane.”

Phillip stood. “I’m going home. Where are the boys?”

“With Johnnie.”

He sighed. “Safe enough, I suppose. As safe as any of us.”

George held out a hand. “A meal before we visit Mr. Doyle, Lil?” He hoped some of her aggression might be spent on a victim. He knew this fury, unchecked, would bring disaster. Lil could not live with herself if she corrupted innocents, and for the nonce she seemed prone to act first and question later.

Her eyes flared. “I’m sure one of these fools will do.” She stared at him. “Are you coming or not, George?”

He sighed. “I will be honest, I am coming to keep an eye on you. You are nearly frothing at the mouth.”

“That is wise. Thank you for your honesty.”

She walked over and kissed him then. It was on the cheek, but this was a rare display of affection before company. He stared into her eyes to see if her medicine was to blame, but no, her pupils were not dilated; neither did he hear her heart race. What a confusing woman. But she was his. Murderess-to-be or not, he was glad he had her for eternity.

Perhaps she had taken seriously his warnings about indiscretion; it indeed seemed they would be taking her motorcycle. As they walked outside to her shed, she called over her shoulder, “I heard what you said to Phillip. I have failed you, haven’t I? With my medicine.”

God, she how she hated this life. He could hear it in her voice. Yet, how could it be otherwise?

George swung her around. “No! No, Lil, you have not failed me.
I
am nearly ready to ask for some of your pills.”

“I am not a good vampire. I wasn’t a very good normal woman either.”

“I’m not a very good maker, Lillian. So perhaps we are meant to struggle together.”

“I am tired, George,” she said. “So tired.”

She stood straighter, fighting tears he could tell. “Then I will carry you, feed you, hold you until you gain strength.”

“Is that what a maker does?”

“That, in my very limited experience, is love.”

She looked up at him, something inscrutable in her eyes. “At times I think: How has he survived centuries of this? What has he seen and done, what sins accumulated, what guilt burning in his gut, what losses? I fear at those times you will give up on me, and I will be alone with my burdens.”

Heart ready to burst, ready to comfort her, he pulled her close but she did not cry. He found himself admitting, “I am also without a compass. I have never been in love with one of my newborns. Perhaps I have never been in love before you.”

“I could not have asked for kinder words right now,” she whispered, brushing a lock of his hair away. But part of her remained reserved.

He leaned in and kissed her. She broke away and held him tight, and they stood in the dim cloudy night for minutes until their hearts beat to the same rhythm.

“Do you think she is alive, George?”

No, no I don’t.
So he said the only truthful thing he could. “I believe we must find out.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dear Mr. Doyle…

Fortunately, Mr. Doyle had not kept it a secret that he stayed at the Altamont hotel. Though, why would he? He was famous to some, inconsequential to most, a harm to no one. The
Morning Herald
always reported visits of foreign notables to Baltimore, including sightings of them with local celebrities, so it had taken Lillian only a few inquiries to locate him.

That was the easy part, she thought. Facing the man who had changed her life—for better or worse—would be more difficult. Only George and Bess understood how Mr. Doyle had given her an instrument of escape, a way to disappear into fantasy, a way to survive her former life. How many times had she imagined this meeting? But she had been a great detective then, at least in her mind. Now she was a tired, broken creature with nothing to offer.

She expected to be brushed away at the desk, but the clerk came back breathless. “Mr. Doyle would like to see you right away, Miss Holmes and Mr. Orleans. Follow me.”

Her case of nerves intensified, and she took a swig of Mrs. Winslow’s Remedy in clear sight of George, who groaned but looked away. This wasn’t time for shame. She would meet her hero and find out if he was also her foe.

The clerk had barely a chance to knock on his door before Doyle opened it to an expansive suite. The man looked as he had at the train station, dressed in tweed with a pipe in his hand.

But for a curious glance at her attire, he seemed to recognize her. He shook hands with George and invited them in. “I am happy to have this chance to meet you in person,” he said. “And this would be the young man I heard about in your last letter?”

Lillian searched the air for something to say that would not sound trite. But: “Indeed, we are both great admirers of your writing.”

George offered a similar pleasantry, but Lillian barely heard the exchange. She knew Doyle would be astute, and that it would be easy for him to throw her off balance if he so desired, if he were involved with her enemies. She was trying to think of a way around that.

“We have already met, in a way, Mr. Doyle,” she began.

“Through our letters, of course. May I offer you a sherry, or ring for tea?”

“At the train depot. You watched me, and I followed you.”

“Indeed?” The man sat back in his chair, hands tented on his lap, staring as intently as he had in the terminal. Then he said, “Good. That is what a fine detective would do. Did you know my identity?”

This was a bit like her fantasy meeting, she had to admit.
Be brave, Lillian. Be the inquisitor you were once sworn to be.

“It took a moment or two. Your conversation about literary matters with your friend, your accent and bearing… In the end it was not difficult to identify the Staring Man,” she offered with a small smile. Perhaps that would throw
him
off balance.

“Ah. You bettered me then, Miss Holmes, as I did not know your identity while I stared. I only noted your loveliness.” He inclined his head as if he paid her a great compliment, but he used the gesture to cast a nervous glance at George and Lillian knew that he was quite curious about them both. Did he know the truth, or at least part of the truth? Could he have taken the ramblings of that busybody Etta Langham seriously? If so, why didn’t he greet them with an ash stake or holy water?

After a short silence, Doyle turned to George. “An acquaintance of mine said that you are the owner of Baltimore’s largest shipyard, Mr. Orleans.”

Damn Etta Langhan,
Lillian thought.

George shrugged. “My brother has the head for business. What acquaintance do we have in common?”

“I’ve forgotten the name. Someone I met at my lecture. I cannot remember how the topic arose, but… Hmnn.”

Lillian almost laughed.
Well, he may be a brilliant writer, but a fine actor he is not.
Yet, why hadn’t she talked this through with George beforehand? What was the approach that would elicit the most information without them having to reveal themselves as part of the bargain?

George crossed his legs and folded his arms. It was a casual gesture which Lillian knew. He was readying for battle, preparing for a game of verbal chess. But, this was already the endgame. Many pieces had been already taken off the board.

Let him help, Lillian. He has been on this earth far longer than you, hidden his nature for far longer. He also has a stake in the answers.

As if sensing her approval, George spoke. “Tea. I think I might quite fancy a cup now that you mention it, sir. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all.”

Their host stood and walked to the bell pull. As he did George said, “I understand that our late friend, Miss Annaluisa Pelosi, was to perform at your lecture. Perhaps that is the person we had in common?”

Doyle swung around. “Perhaps. I am extremely distressed by her death.”

“We were close friends. And perhaps you have heard of another great loss of ours. Lillian’s maid, Aileen O’Shaunessy. She was in Lil’s service for years, and betrothed to another friend of ours. The deaths seem quite similar to me.”

“And to me!” Doyle raced back to his seat. “My good man, I was just speaking about these awful crimes to a young reporter. He needed a story to secure a full-time post as a journalist, and I pointed him in just that direction.”

“Oh, I know a few journalists,” George said. “What is his name?”

“Mencken. Odd young chap, quick and cutting. He should do well.”

Wonderful. One more snoop in the mix. Lillian knew that George was cursing inwardly as much as she, but would he visit this Mencken fellow tonight and make a meal of him?

Her beloved kept his composure, asking, “Did he come to interview you about your novels, or about your interest in matters of a spiritual nature? Perhaps he was curious about the Learned Order of… I cannot quite recall the name of the organization.”

“He—”

“I myself am curious about all of these things,” George continued, cutting the great author off. “I hope you might consider dining at my home during your stay so we can enjoy hearing your thoughts. Lillian has been your most devoted fan—isn’t that right, dear?—and would love nothing more.”

“Nothing more, indeed!” Lillian agreed. It would be easier to deal with the man in one of their own homes regardless of the method of resolution.

“I’m afraid I’m not here that long, Mr. Orleans. But I am very sorry for both of your losses and would like to understand more about Johnnie’s fiancée. If you would enlighten me.”

“Johnnie? Oh, Officer Moran. Do you know everyone in the city, Mr. Doyle?” Lillian asked.

“Do call me Arthur. And it would seem this city is very small indeed, based on these coincidences.”

“Smaller still if you add to the number members of your own Society, the late Francis Pemberton, esquire, and Dr. Schneider,” George said. “They, too, died within the last month or so. It seems that everyone we have in common…well,
had
in common… When did you arrive in America, Mr. Doyle?” Here George cast a slightly startled look at Lillian, and she was so taken aback by his acting that she had to bite her lip to stop from speaking. Was he trying to make Doyle believe himself suspected of murder?

The ploy seemed to have worked, for the author was terribly fidgety and had started to perspire. This was no Holmes, nor even a Watson, Lillian realized as beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He was just an ordinary fellow. A brilliant, kind, ordinary fellow.

Doyle seemed relieved by the knock on the door, and when the butler finished laying out tea, Lillian poured.