In Sherlock's Shadow (Mrs Hudson & Sherlock Holmes Book 2) Read online

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  This narrative concerns matters of national security of the most sensitive kind, on which investigations are still proceeding.

  Access to this document is restricted to persons on the appended list ONLY. Any attempt to distribute this narrative more widely will be regarded as a criminal offence.

  BY ORDER OF THE PRIME MINISTER

  CHAPTER 1

  The doorbell pealed as I was pouring the coffee, and a thin dark stream slid down the side of the china cup. ‘They’re early!’

  ‘Why are they always early?’ Sherlock jumped up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘Leave it, Nell, there’s no time.’

  ‘Shall I give it a minute?’ Billy called up from the kitchen.

  ‘Please.’ Sherlock was already bounding up the stairs to his consulting-room, where I suspected he would spend the remaining seconds before our visitor was shown upstairs making it look untidy.

  Dr Watson rose from the table. ‘I shall sit in, Mrs Hudson.’ He brushed down his waistcoat and left the room at a march.

  ‘Come on, ma’am!’ Billy stage-whispered from outside the door. ‘I need to let ’em in!’

  ‘All right!’ I smoothed my hair, though the action was pointless, and hurried upstairs after the two gentlemen, giving thanks for the solidity of our front door. As I reached the landing I heard murmuring from the consulting-room, and a low chuckle from Sherlock. ‘Shh!’ I hissed as I passed. My hand closed on the cool brass doorknob of the adjoining room, and I whisked in, closing the door softly behind me.

  As was customary when Sherlock expected a visitor, the gas lamps had been lit and turned down low, and the curtains closed. I edged through the trunks, the boxes, the cases of chemical apparatus, and took a cushion from the window-seat. I crossed to the wall and listened. They were still talking, and Billy’s voice almost drowned the creak of the stairs; a sort of final warning. I must hurry. I dropped the cushion on the carpet, in front of the bookcase filled with criminological histories, and knelt. I drew out a fat morocco-bound volume — Lombroso’s Criminal Man — and put my eye to the chink of light its absence revealed.

  Sherlock was in his usual chair, leaning back, his fingers poised in a steeple. Dr Watson sat upright, a notebook open on his knee. However, his chair had been shifted forward so that I could not get a clear view of the empty armchair.

  ‘Doctor,’ I whispered. Dr Watson’s shoulders stiffened, and he glanced in my general direction. ‘Please could you move your chair? I can’t see.’

  Dr Watson got up and moved his chair back a foot. ‘How is that?’ he mouthed.

  ‘A little more.’ He moved the chair back as much again. ‘Thank you.’

  He sat down just as Billy knocked on the consulting-room door. I could see the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes even from my hiding-place. ‘Come in!’ he called, and though he looked almost bored, the note of excitement in his voice was impossible to miss. He was on the hunt, ready for the chase. I looked down at my crossed fingers, hoping that he would not be disappointed.

  ***

  Our visitor — Sherlock’s visitor — was a stout, red-faced, middle-aged man, whom Billy announced as Mr Higgins. Sherlock’s face had fallen a little on his appearance, but a casual observer would not have noticed. ‘Take a seat, Mr Higgins,’ Sherlock said, waving a hand at the high-backed armchair.

  Mr Higgins did as he was told, gripping the arms of the chair as if he were about to embark on a fairground ride. He had placed his bowler hat in his lap, and Sherlock’s gaze rested on it for a moment. ‘May I introduce my friend and colleague Dr Watson. If you don’t mind, he will take notes of our conversation.’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t mind, I don’t mind at all —’

  ‘Excellent. Now, why does your wife want you to come and see me? Is it something to do with your shop, or another matter?’

  Mr Higgins’s mouth dropped open. ‘I — well!’ A chuckle escaped from him as if it had been a hiccup. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘It was simple,’ Sherlock replied. ‘Your demeanour on entering the room — your apprehension — indicates that you would rather not be here. More precisely, that you do not think you should be here. Therefore, someone whom you cannot refuse has sent you. The most obvious person is a wife, and since your hat has been brushed and you appear well-fed, I took the gamble.’

  ‘But — the shop?’

  Sherlock took up his pipe from the table, filled it, and pointed its stem at a region around Mr Higgins’s left knee. ‘When Billy showed you in, I perceived that you had a magazine protruding from your coat pocket. While it is upside down, I recognise the typeface as that of The Grocer.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mr Higgins leaned round and scrabbled at his coat pocket, pulling out a crumpled periodical. ‘Well, well,’ he said, gazing at the paper as if it might have changed in his pocket. ‘That’s very clever, to know that.’

  ‘Is it a financial matter?’ Sherlock lit his pipe and sat back, breathing plumes of smoke. I was glad to be in a different room.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Mr Higgins frowned. ‘The shop is doing well, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I am sure it is.’ Sherlock blew a smoke ring. ‘Do you have anyone staying with you at the moment? Relatives or acquaintances, I mean. Not lodgers.’

  Mr Higgins stared again. ‘My wife’s nephew is with us at the moment —’

  ‘In that case,’ Sherlock leaned forward, ‘I advise you to examine your books carefully, to change the locks on your shop, and to have a word with your nephew. The strange phenomenon that has brought you here — whatever it may be — is either a distraction technique or a signal to accomplices. I fully expect that if you take no action you will either find a steady trickle of money escaping from your profits, or you will be burgled. You buy trade magazines, you are a careful man; that is plain for anyone to see, including your nephew. Your shop will be insured. Perhaps he sees it as a victimless crime; perhaps he does not care, or he is in the grip of others. At any rate, if you do as I suggest I predict that the strange phenomenon will cease.’

  Mr Higgins pulled out a large handkerchief and passed it over his forehead. ‘I — I don’t know what to say.’ His eyes were round as buttons. ‘You think that Maisie — my wife — knows?’

  ‘Strongly suspects, I believe.’ Sherlock took another puff at his pipe, then regarded it critically. ‘I was hoping for a three-pipe problem, but as it turns out that was barely half. If you have nothing else to discuss, Mr Higgins —’

  The grocer rose, fumbling in his trouser pocket. ‘Your fee —’

  Sherlock pulled out his watch and glanced at it. ‘I do not charge for the first fifteen minutes, and your case occupied five and a half. Good day to you, Mr Higgins.’ He extended a hand, and the grocer pumped it up and down, beaming, before bowing low and taking his leave. His exclamations of wonder grew fainter as he descended, until the front door closed.

  Sherlock turned his head, and looked directly at me. ‘How did I do, Nell?’ His smile was broad.

  ‘I’ll come through.’ I got up, returned the cushion and the books to their places, and extinguished the lamps. When I entered the consulting room both men turned to me. Dr Watson was beaming, his notebook forgotten. Sherlock’s smile had faded a little.

  ‘Did you spot him, Nell?’ he asked.

  ‘You were so quick that I barely had a chance,’ I said. ‘I noticed the hat and the magazine, but of course I couldn’t tell which it was.’

  ‘Study pays off,’ Sherlock said around his pipe.

  ‘It may,’ I countered, ‘but wa
iving your clients’ fees doesn’t. We have bills to pay.’ I sat in the armchair that Mr Higgins had recently vacated.

  ‘Free advertising, Nell.’ Sherlock took the pipe from his mouth and used it to emphasise his points. ‘Mr Higgins will marvel all the way home. He will congratulate his wife for her idea of consulting me. Together they will probably tell their whole acquaintance that I am the man to visit.’

  ‘Brilliant, Holmes!’ Watson closed his notebook with a snap.

  ‘Not if they come expecting a free consultation.’ I smiled to try and take the sting from my remark, but a tiny twist of Sherlock’s mouth told me that I need not have bothered. ‘You did brilliantly, as always. You know that.’ My praise was genuine, but had come too late.

  ‘I am trying to build my practice, Nell. You know that.’

  Dr Watson coughed, and rose to his feet. ‘I think I’ll go and write this case up in my room. Quite a heavy dinner, and I mean to be in early tomorrow. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ we echoed.

  I waited until the doctor’s feet had reached the landing above, then got up and sat on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. I leaned down and kissed the top of his head. ‘It’s the housekeeper in me. And it isn’t just us.’

  ‘I know.’ Sherlock looked up at me. ‘How are the finances?’

  I made a face. ‘We’re just about all right for this month, thanks to Dr Watson’s contribution. But I want you to charge for your next case, even if it takes you two minutes to solve it.’

  Sherlock saluted. ‘Message received.’ He rose and extended a hand. ‘Let’s go down to the drawing room. I have a new monograph in mind, and a pot of strong coffee will help immensely.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ I smiled, but as we went downstairs I recalled the crumbs on the tablecloth in the dining room. Our reserve of money was low; that was true. But my reserve of patience was dwindling too. I was tired of being the eye at the peephole. I had had enough of making do with second-hand excitement. I couldn’t survive on the crumbs from Sherlock’s table.

  CHAPTER 2

  We had begun so well. I remembered those first days.

  It had taken me a while to recover from the revelation of what had happened to my husband; how he, and I, had been tricked. Sherlock had set me free, but it took some time before I dared to venture into the world again. Even now I sometimes found myself scurrying out of the house with my head down. I had to remember that I could stand straight and look about me without fear. No one was watching me.

  When I was better, there was much to do. Inspector Lestrade, as he had offered, transferred the lease of 221B Baker Street to me — well, to Mrs Helen Hudson. Thanks to the Inspector, and to Mycroft Holmes’s position at the General Register Office, I now had a creased, faded, but undeniably official birth certificate stating that Helen Mary Jones had been born on the 13th September 1853, and a certificate marking my marriage to Hiram Hudson on 1st March 1873, before his registered death from heart failure five years later. I had chosen the thirteenth of September as my official birthday. I couldn’t keep the same birthday due to the possible risk of detection, and the date of Jack’s disappearance had marked the birth of my new identity, so it was as logical a choice as any.

  Once the lease was in my name, I set about getting the house in order. After a lengthy exchange of letters with the owner, a hot-water system was installed; no more rapidly-cooling cans to lug up multiple flights of stairs. The drawing room, the scene of my persecutor’s downfall, was redecorated and refurnished. The dining room was opened up. I visited the warehouse where my furniture and personal items had been stored, and brought back a few things which made me smile. The rest I gave away.

  Perhaps most importantly, we moved rooms. Sherlock’s consulting room on the first floor stayed as it was; but I moved into his bedroom. Dr Watson moved into my old rooms, while his former bedroom, leading off the consulting room, became a dressing room for Sherlock and I. Billy kept his attic room; but the room underneath, next to the bathroom, became a sitting room and working room for him and for Martha, our new maid of all work.

  Martha’s recruitment had been a laboured affair. As the mistress of the house, I considered that hiring new staff was my job. However, Sherlock insisted on being involved, to assure himself of the new servant’s discretion. Then Dr Watson, hearing that Sherlock was looking through applicants’ letters, decided to take a view; and finally Billy argued rather sensibly that since he would be working alongside our new hire, he should have a say. Martha was the only candidate who satisfied everyone’s requirements and also failed to tremble when faced with a panel of four interrogators in the drawing room. She came to us from a country vicar with a large family, because she was seeking excitement, and within days I had forgotten what life was like before she came. Martha was indefatigable, energetic, and while polite, brooked no argument. I wished I could be more like her.

  Outside the walls of 221B, I was reunited with my family and friends. It was a bittersweet affair. I could not tell them the truth; too much was at stake. The Inspector, Sherlock, Mycroft and I had sat down in conference and devised a sanitised version. My husband Jack had died overseas, on the special mission he had been engaged in — but I could not speak of that. I had returned, shaken by the experience, and was keeping house for two bachelor gentlemen.

  My friend Lottie was sympathy itself, so much so that I felt guilty for my deceit. My mother, however, was less easily persuaded. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ she said, when we were washing dishes in her scullery after Sunday lunch. ‘You’ve been up to something, my girl.’

  ‘You can ask Inspector Lestrade if you don’t believe me,’ I said, reaching for a dinner plate. I tried to keep my face as level and calm as a mill-pond.

  ‘I’m sure I could.’ She plunged her arms into the sink and fished up a bowl. ‘I wouldn’t believe him either. I’ve known you longer than anyone, Nelly, and I can tell when you’re spinning a yarn.’

  ‘How?’ I asked, genuinely curious. If I had a weakness, I wanted to know so that I could suppress it in future.

  She laughed. ‘Now, why would I tell you?’ She handed me the bowl, now glistening clean, and I dried it. ‘It’s good to have you back,’ she said into the sink. ‘We missed you.’

  ‘I missed you.’

  My mother raised her head and gave me a long look. ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Why?’ I frowned.

  She turned back to the sink. ‘I think you’ve been too busy to miss me, Nelly.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll probably regret this.’

  ‘What, Mama?’ I could feel my cheeks growing warm.

  ‘That’s what you used to say when I’d as good as caught you red-handed. So innocent, you were. But you’d blink, and that’s how I knew. You always blink when you lie. Even when you think you’re telling the truth, you do it. You can’t help yourself.’ She handed me a side plate and I almost dropped it. ‘I won’t tell anyone, you don’t have to worry about that. But whatever you’ve been mixed up in, stay away from it. You’re not the girl you were three years ago.’

  My eyes prickled with hot tears, and I longed to tell her everything, to pour it all out and explain, so that I could be free of it, could pull the plug and let it go. But it was impossible. It was forbidden. So I kept quiet.

  I kept quiet at home as well. At first it was easy. I had Sherlock, I was sure of him. Hadn’t he given me his signet ring to wear? And he had joked, when I showed him my new birth certificate, that the change of name was a temporary matter. That warmed me like a blazing fire on a winter day; and yet we still had years to wait. Until 13th September 1885, to be exact. Seven years after Jack’s disappearance, when he would be declared officially dead. We could, with my new identity, have married straight away; but it seemed wrong to do so. Hasty. Of course we could wait, and do it properly.

  In between my various household obligations, I discussed cases with Sherlock. Occasionally we disguised ourselves and shadowed as a couple, either keeping togethe
r, or meeting at an agreed place and time after splitting to follow different people. I helped to put various criminals behind bars. And yet, somehow, the cases where I could help in this way grew fewer. Perhaps it was because more people were consulting Sherlock. Perhaps it was because we were seeing less of Inspector Lestrade and more of Inspector Gregson, whom I knew less well. But between the things I ought to do, and many that I wanted to do — getting to know my friends again, spending time with them, making new acquaintances in the Baker Street area, and running the house — I often found myself too busy to take more than a passing, end-of-the-day interest in Sherlock’s work.

  I had tried sitting in on a few of Sherlock’s cases, but the experiment failed. Sherlock shook his head as the door closed on another client. ‘I’m sorry, Nell, it isn’t working. They won’t open up with you in the room.’ He was right. Even as ‘my confidential secretary’, I saw how their eyes flicked towards me, sizing me up. Did they expect me to gossip? Why was it that Dr Watson could sit and nod, just as I did, and they trusted him?

  Whatever the cause, the effect was the same. I was confined to being the spy next door, cramped and chilly on my cushion, while Dr Watson nodded and scribbled. Even in my ordinary, day-to-day life I crept about, unable to acknowledge my relationship with Sherlock. I had so much to be thankful for; the chance to pick up the threads of my old life, an impressive townhouse in Marylebone, and the love of a good man — but somehow, often, it turned to ashes in my mouth.

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘I want to work.’

  We were alone, for once, in the dining room. Dr Watson had already breakfasted and gone to his work at the hospital. Billy was banging about in the kitchen, and Martha was mending upstairs.

  Sherlock regarded me over the rim of his cup, his grey eyes steady. His face was serious when he set the cup down. ‘I’m not stopping you.’