“What can we do?” I asked.
“Nothing; we can only wait.”
We fell silent for some time, until finally I could bear it no longer. “Mr. Holmes, is there nothing I can do to redeem myself to you after allowing this to happen?”
“Martha, do not fret. You are not in jeopardy. The fault was mine for making the letters so easily accessible. But if you would care to make a meal—I have a hearty appetite, and I am sure Watson would agree to your cooking—then all is forgiven.”
I nodded, and with that continued in the adventures of Baker Street, which I am a part of to this day.
An Intimate Case
In my first of many winters with Mr. Holmes, the snows were long and hard. On this singular occasion, the winds were particularly strong, and although we had a roaring fire in the grate, a bitter chill still hung about the sitting room. Mr. Holmes was smoking on his pipe, pondering, when he suddenly said, “What do you know of crime, Martha?”
Not sure what he meant by the question, I answered, “I know we need less of it, sir.”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “But do you believe we will ever be rid of it? As long as there is a criminal underworld, you can be certain that we will never have a shortage. But after it has been eliminated, do you believe we will have no more work to do?”
Some time passed before I could answer him. After much thought, I finally said, “I believe there are good people about the world, generally. But if you are worried for lack of work, Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that England shall always have a need for your assistance.”
He smiled at this, and then turned toward the door, for it had blown open from the gale outside. I arose to close it, but Mr. Holmes held up his hand and went himself. “Thank you for your vote of confidence,” he said as he walked, “but I—”
Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass, and my master fell to his knees.
“Mr. Holmes!” I shouted, rushing to steady him.
“Fetch Watson…,” he said in a strained voice, his hand covered in blood. His face became paler by the second, and I feared that he might faint. I tore a piece of my apron to make a compress and said, “We must get you somewhere safe.”
He took my wrist, and squeezing it tightly, said with all the strength he could manage, “Go, now.” I knew I had no time to waste, and that I must find Dr. Watson without delay. I nodded, and leaving him there ran out into the night.
The snow came down continuously, and I sensed that it was late, for the lamps were burning brightly and the shops were closing. I remembered that Mr. Holmes had sent Dr. Watson to the West End to check on a young man who had been caught by a stray bullet during one of their cases. Knowing that Mr. Holmes’s life lay in my hands, I hurriedly made my way down the dark, silent streets. I was coming upon Portman Square when I saw the shadow of a chase against the white surroundings. I hailed it, and found Dr. Watson inside.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes has been wounded. We must get to him quickly, or I fear he shall die!”
“At Baker Street?” Dr. Watson’s brows knitted as he told the driver to hurry on.
“Yes. We were speaking by the fire when the door blew open. He stood up to close it and was shot through the window. Ah, poor Mr. Holmes!”
I covered my face with my hands. Dr. Watson roused me from my thoughts and said, “It will be all right; I shall mend him.”
When at last we arrived at Baker Street, I opened the door at once, finding Mr. Holmes lying in his blood, grey and silent. Dr. Watson took up his arm.
“Are we too late?” I gasped.
“No,” Dr. Watson replied. “Thankfully he has merely fainted from loss of blood. Please fetch me some brandy, some clean water and fresh cloths.”
By the time I returned to the hall, the doctor had transferred Mr. Holmes to a sofa near the fire. “I hope you do not mind the sight of blood,” he said to me as he took out a long instrument from a large black bag. I shook my head and he said, “Good. Now please hold his shoulder, that I might have a closer inspection of the wound.”
I did so, and as he carefully worked around the skin, began to pull at the bullet. Within a minutes or so, I heard a small “pop” and the bullet was free and whole. “Fate is with us,” said Dr. Watson, and he smiled. With a sigh of relief, I began to wrap the wound, when Mr. Holmes opened his eyes.
“Watson,” he said faintly, “I was—”
“I know. Miss Beauregard has told me all. You should rest now, Holmes.”
“But I must find out—”
“Later, when you are well enough.”
“The man is—”
“You may be the detective, Holmes, but I am the doctor. Rest now, that’s an order.”
He looked at him incredulously, but it was not long before he fell asleep for lack of strength. Dr. Watson then told me to dress the wound every couple of hours, and to make sure that Mr. Holmes did not attempt, upon waking, to go about business in the usual way. He stressed rest most of all, which I knew Mr. Holmes would treat with contempt. I followed his directions to the best of my ability, and by late morning, Mr. Holmes was sitting up on the sofa, restless and deep in concentration.
Dr. Watson was reading the morning paper and I was making breakfast, when Mr. Holmes asked if he could have the bullet from his wound.
“Whatever for?” Dr. Watson asked in surprise.
“This person is obviously a good shot,” he said.
“Yes. It’s a pure miracle that it missed your heart and your left lung, for it hit just above those vital organs, and could have killed you before my arrival.”
Hearing this conversation from the kitchen, I shuddered at the thought and decided that the subject should take a new course. “What of the bullet, Mr. Holmes?”
He turned to me as if distracted, then sighed. “I had hoped that with the bullet, I would be able to find the gun it belonged to, and thereby its owner as well.” He rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers.
“Are you well, sir?”
“Yes, Martha, just weary. Could you please convince Dr. Watson that I need the bullet for further study?”
I looked at Dr. Watson, who ignored me as if he had not heard a word. At last he stood up and, grumbling to himself, gave Mr. Holmes a handkerchief. Mr. Holmes chuckled quietly and whispered to me, “Your very stare moves a man to action.” He smiled, and then immediately set to work. He carefully unwrapped the handkerchief and asked for his glass. He seemed to study minutely every inch of the bullet, and some time passed before he spoke again. He then quickly stood up, as if resolved, and headed for the door.
“Get back here, Holmes,” Dr. Watson said, not harshly but with definite authority.
“I am well, my good man. Thanks to your efforts, I am fit enough to go about.”
“Thank you for the compliments, but I am not convinced.”
“Watson, how am I to solve this case if—” Mr. Holmes grew pale, and began to rock back and forth. I caught him under the arm as he leaned into my shoulder. Dr. Watson smiled faintly, and Mr. Holmes let out an exclamation of despair, “Perhaps it would be better if I were dead.”
“Mr. Holmes!” I said rather angrily as I led him back to the sofa.
“Fear not, my good lady; nothing shall befall me, especially if Watson keeps such a close eye.” He frowned and his brows furrowed.
“Could I possibly be of service to you, sir?”
He shook his head, pondering. He then turned to Dr. Watson and said, with a somewhat bitter tone, “May I inspect the window, doctor?”
Dr. Watson looked at him over the paper, coughed, and raised it higher as if ignoring him. Mr. Holmes took this as acquiescence, and like a giddy schoolboy went quickly to the window. He examined it in his way and asked me to join him.
“Martha,” he asked nonchalantly, “would you care to tell me what you see from this hole in the window?” He smiled, and I was sure that he knew exactly what he wished me to tell him.
I knelt and began t
o describe the scene. “I see part of the front path, and the outline of the street, but it’s all covered in snow. I am not sure what you wish me to say, Mr. Holmes.”
“Look a little further,” he urged.
I sighed and looked again. “There are bare trees, and small dips where the hedges must be—”
“Exactly,” he said, his eyes shining in excitement. “Now, Miss Beauregard, would you be so kind as to go out to those snowy hedges and tell me what you find there?”
“Surely, sir. But they are so far—”
“Do you not wish to go? I could send Watson, though I believe he would be less able than you to observe what I am not well enough to venture forth for.”
“No, I will go. But I would be quite surprised indeed if anyone hiding there could reach this place.”
“Perhaps I am wrong, but I do not believe so. Will you go, Martha?”
I nodded and went out. The storm had ended, but an icy wind still whipped about the street. The snow was soft, still susceptible to my footprints in the grey winter sun. I walked steadily to the hedges, the most solitary soul in the world. The walk seemed so long that I wondered how someone could possibly have shot from such a hiding place into the window at Baker Street, when I came around to the first hedge and discovered something. Very faint from the fresh storm was the impression of a boot, no longer the full boot but only the shape of the toe. Nearby also was a golden bullet shell. I grabbed up the golden capsule and ran back to the house.
“Sir, sir!” I called out in excitement, “I did find something there.” I gave Mr. Holmes the capsule and said, “There was also the impression of a boot, almost hidden completely by the snow, but Nature has been kind.”
A look of anxiety came over his face, and I feared that I had done wrong. “Was there nothing else there?” he asked, and I hung my head.
“Well, sir, as soon as I saw the boot and the shell, I ran back. I did not see anything else plainly. Forgive me—I was so surprised at your correct conjectures that I did not observe much else.”
“No, you did well, quite well,” he said quietly and sighed. A pregnant silence followed, and my own embarrassment and anxiety grew with it.
At last Mr. Holmes spoke again. “The man is a sharpshooter, a soldier. The gun is a rifle, and a long one at that.” Relief came over my person as he made these observations, for I had supposed that I had lost the case for my employer.
“But with the storm,” observed Dr. Watson, “it would be quite difficult indeed to see your target.”
“You are true as ever, Watson,” Mr. Holmes said, “That is exactly why he missed. He was aiming straight for the heart.”
A chill ran down my spine as he came to this conclusion. “Chandler?” I asked, directing my gaze to Mr. Holmes’s face. His expression was clouded, and not only by the tobacco smoke that covered the room.
“No, I do not believe it was him.”
“Who else could it be?” I went on, confused by my master’s reluctance. “He is the only man I can think of who would do such a thing, with or without a motive.”
“Chandler always has a motive,” Mr. Holmes said with some annoyance, “Besides, a move like this is unusual for him; he would slander or threaten before he would kill outright. And I can never imagine him using a gun like this in his entire dastardly career.”
“Might it be an associate?” Dr. Watson suggested.
“That is a definite possibility,” Mr. Holmes replied with a frustrated sigh, “but the only way to know for sure is to see the impression in the snow outside and make further inquires there.” He shot a heated glance at Dr. Watson, who held up his hands.
“Would you have preferred that I allow you to die when I could save you?”
“No.” He smiled weakly, and his face softened. “I only wish that my health would permit an investigation. I fear it may soon be too late to obtain the culprit.”
“You have Miss Beauregard and myself at your disposal,” Dr. Watson insisted. “Really, Holmes, you should have more faith in us.”
“Come now, Watson,” Mr. Holmes cried. “You know that I would use you if there were no possible danger to you or Martha. I fear there are games afoot that might catch you in the crossfire.”
“Do not fear, sir,” I said, hoping to sound more confident than I felt. “Fate thus far has been kind; let us hope for better things to come. We also need to get you to a safer spot, lest this man should return and win his objective.”
“I am all right here,” Mr. Holmes said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I do not think he shall come again so soon. After observing my fall yesterday, he most likely believes you are preparing for a funeral.”
I nodded and Dr. Watson followed me out the door. Arriving at the hedges, we discovered that the impression, though faded, had hardened. Pondering for a time, Dr. Watson placed his own foot inside the mold. The frozen impression was slightly longer, of which the doctor told me to take note, and then said, “Search for any queer signs or unnatural objects about.”
After some time searching in the cold, I saw some discoloration on the leaves of the hedge. “Will this be of service to us?”
I held up the leaves. Dr. Watson hesitated, and for a time did not speak. In deep concentration, he said at last, “Everything, even the smallest detail, is important somehow. Though I do not see a connection at present, I am sure our good friend will see one.” He then held up a bit of ragged cloth, and urged that we go back to the house before we catch our own deaths. It was in this somber mood that we entered the house, with Mr. Holmes anxiously awaiting our return.
“What have you brought me, old chap?” he asked. When he saw our faces, his own twitched.
“We believe we have found some fresh evidence, but can make nothing of it,” Dr. Watson said as he handed him the cloth and leaves. Mr. Holmes took up his glass and became intensely engrossed in his work. After a time, Mr. Holmes observed, “I am sure of one fact… It is not Chandler.”
“But sir,” I asked, frustrated, “How do you know—”
“By simple deduction, Miss Beauregard,” said Mr. Holmes dismissively. “If Watson’s measurements are correct, that would make Chandler much too short. Now, what’s this?”
He was holding the bit of cloth as if it were a precious jewel. Pulling away a few fibers, he scrutinized them carefully; a slight frown crept over his lips. As he drew the cloth under the microscope the frown grew deeper, and as he withdrew his eye it seemed as if a great weight suddenly appeared in an instant upon his shoulders.
“What is the matter, sir?”
“I am sure it is nothing of consequence,” he replied lightly, though I knew better than to believe him, for he did not leave his chair for an hour and a half thereafter.
A couple of days passed, and to my relief Mr. Holmes was making a rapid recovery. One morning after breakfast, he asked me if I would like to do some shopping with him.
“Surely. What is it you’re looking for, Mr. Holmes?”
“A coat. I find myself fancying a new one this year.”
“Very well. Shall I fetch Dr. Watson as well?”
“No. I do not believe we shall need him, and as he has told me his war comrades are in town, I let him take the day off from our company.”
When we had arrived at the nearest shop, Mr. Holmes went toward the back of the shop, where the summer jackets had been stowed for winter. He felt each one delicately on the shoulder.
After nearly twenty minutes of this odd behavior, I told him, “Mr. Holmes, these jackets are nowhere near long enough or thick enough to keep you warm.”
“Right…quite right.” he said absent-mindedly. He then let me lead the way to the proper winter coats.
At each shop we entered, he would repeat this eccentric study, and each time I reminded him what we were actually searching for. Finally, when all resources nearby were exhausted, we wandered home to Baker Street empty-handed. Mr. Holmes pondered the rest of the day, tobacco smoke filling the sitting room.
“And this surprises you?” Dr. Watson smiled; when my look of consternation met it, he coughed and attempted to be serious again.
“Yesterday he asked me to shop with him for a winter coat, but all he seemed interested in were the summer jackets.”
Dr. Watson’s brows knitted. “I’ll talk to him about it tonight before I leave for the war reunion.”
That night, as Dr. Watson was leaving to meet with his comrades, Mr. Holmes bid him farewell, then suddenly said, “What are you wearing?”
“Holmes,” Dr. Watson replied, “you know perfectly well that I was going to the war reunion tonight.”
“This is your uniform?” he replied with controlled nonchalance.
“Yes. May I leave now?”
“Certainly.” Mr. Holmes shook Dr. Watson’s hand.
“I’m not leaving forever, Holmes,” answered Dr. Watson, disconcerted.
“Don’t be silly. If you dawdle any longer you’ll be late.”
With that, Dr. Watson went out the door. Mr. Holmes spent the rest of the night in his study. The next morning, Mr. Holmes’s eyes were bright. He rubbed his hands together and paced impatiently, I suspect waiting for Dr. Watson to awaken. Once the three of us were assembled, Mr. Holmes proceeded to tell us his theory.
“The material you brought me some time ago has proved to be most elusive but, thanks to Dr. Watson wearing his uniform last night, I believe I have found the answer. It belongs to the sleeve of a hunting jacket issued by her majesty’s army, I presume for a campaign in Afghanistan or India. If we were to find the jacket, I am sure we would also find an army stitch much like Watson uses somewhere near the shoulder.”
“So that’s why you went rifling through all those jackets.” I nearly laughed aloud.
“Precisely,” he said feverishly. “But there is still more. Even as I rubbed the cloth to make certain I was correct, under the microscope the fibers were clearly not the same as the frayed cloth. When you brought the cloth to me, there was also another clue waiting for us. It was hair.”
The Hudson Diaries Page 2