I sighed. ‘I know. It isn’t you, it’s — I don’t know what it is exactly.’ I was acutely aware of how foolish I sounded.
‘Given that we aren’t married, and won’t be for some time, I would hardly have thought you would have had the opportunity to grow bored.’ Sherlock’s voice was light, but there was no warmth in it.
‘I’m not saying it’s your fault, not at all,’ I gabbled, rising to gather the breakfast things. ‘The chance never seems to come along any more.’
‘Let Billy or Martha do that.’ Sherlock frowned.
‘It’s no trouble —’
‘Exactly.’
I put the plates on the table. ‘What do you mean?’ I knew already that I would not like Sherlock’s answer. He was toying with me, just as a cat lets a mouse go for the pleasure of catching it again. I had seen him do it with clients, setting up the scenario, waiting for the right moment to unleash the solution. He had done it to me once, long ago. I had hoped it would be the last time.
‘You say that you want to work. I know exactly what you mean. You want to be out there on your own, stalking, shadowing. I remember what you were like when you came back from my assignments. Bright eyes, flushed cheeks, desperate to tell me about it, to share the risky things you’d done.’ Sherlock’s voice was soft, and the smile I craved was there at last. ‘Yet here you are playing housemaid.’
He might as well have slapped me. ‘I am not!’
Sherlock looked at the plates, then at me, and raised his eyebrows.
‘Don’t make fun of me,’ I spat. ‘Unlike you I have a house to run and responsibilities to attend to. You’d soon complain if your dinner wasn’t on the table or your socks were in holes.’
‘I suppose I would.’ The little smile was back. ‘But I’d expect the servants to take care of it.’
I knew he had a point, but that made it worse. ‘How could you understand?’ I flung that over my shoulder as I stomped towards the door.
‘Nell —’ I wrenched the door open and slammed it hard behind me. That helped a great deal. In fact, I found myself smiling. I took my hat and jacket from the hall stand. ‘I’m going for a walk, Billy,’ I called downstairs. ‘I’ll be back before lunch.’
I set out at a brisk pace for the park. It was a beautiful late-summer day, and the mist was rising from the lawns as I marched round the lake. I was full of righteous indignation, and I needed to get it out of my system. The clack of my boots on the path, the swing of my arms, soothed me, and I fell into a pleasant daydream of a brilliant coup which I would carry off under Sherlock’s nose, the details of which were as yet unclear, till a figure stepped out of nowhere and I cannoned into it. ‘I’m so sorry, I —’
Sherlock raised his hat. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve passed you as you’ve barrelled round the lake?’ But he was smiling, and his eyes danced with mischief. The walk had done him good too.
I smiled back. ‘I have no idea. I didn’t see you.’
We walked together, Sherlock slowing his pace to accommodate my shorter stride. ‘I was about ten yards distant until you reached the park. I wanted to give you a little time to cool down. Then I went the other way round the lake to try and meet you, but you looked straight past me, even when I wished you good morning.’
‘Oh dear.’ I giggled, imagining Sherlock ready to bury the hatchet and being ignored.
‘I tried a few more times, and once you said good morning in reply, but eventually I came to the conclusion that you would probably wear a groove in the path unless I stood in your way.’ Sherlock chuckled, and crooked an arm for me, his eyes inquiring. I slipped my arm through his, and he stroked my gloved hand. ‘I’m sorry I was — inflammatory.’
‘You were. You were probably right, too.’ I sighed.
‘When you stormed off I was about to say that Gregson is calling round at eleven, and you could sit in. Unless there’s anything you’d rather be doing, of course.’ His voice was casual, but when I looked up there was the smirk I’d expected.
‘What time is it now?’
Sherlock pulled out his pocket watch and pursed his mouth. ‘A quarter to eleven or so.’
I resisted the urge to clutch his arm and hurry him along. ‘I might pop in on you both,’ I said. ‘Bring tea, perhaps.’
Sherlock squeezed my arm with his. ‘Make sure you do, Nell.’
***
Inspector Gregson and Inspector Lestrade were like chalk and cheese. While Lestrade was a small, dark, ferrety man, Gregson was tall and fair, and imposing in a way that Lestrade could never achieve. I wondered whether that made him a better detective.
The Inspector arrived a few minutes after we had returned to Baker Street. I had scurried to tidy my hair and change into a different dress; a high-necked navy merino which I felt made me look serious and responsible. Sherlock’s knock sounded as I was fastening my bodice. ‘May I come in?’
‘Just a moment.’ I did up the last button. ‘Yes.’
I smiled at Sherlock in the mirror as I caught up a stray piece of hair and pinned it in place. He came up behind me, slid his arms round my waist, and leaned down to kiss my cheek. ‘You look much brighter.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll just change my shirt, it’s a bit crumpled.’ He partly undid it, took out his cufflinks, then pulled it over his head in one motion. The muscles of his back rippled as he reached into the wardrobe for a clean shirt, and I had to look away. When I raised my eyes Sherlock was fully clothed, and the little quirk at the corner of his mouth let me know that he had seen my reaction. ‘We’d better go through to the consulting room, I suppose.’ His gaze travelled down the row of little buttons on my dress.
Surprise passed over the Inspector’s face as he entered the room, but it was gone in an instant. ‘Ah, Mrs Hudson, isn’t it,’ he said, as I rose to shake hands. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’
Sherlock had arranged the chairs so that we both faced the high-backed armchair, and Inspector Gregson took his time settling himself; pulling up his trouser knees before he sat, straightening his cuffs, adjusting his tie. He wanted to make us wait until he was ready. Eventually, he cleared his throat, and began.
‘I’ve called round today, Mr Holmes, because I have rather an intriguing case for you. I haven’t forgotten how helpful you were in the Drebber affair, so I wanted to give you first crack at this one…’ His voice trailed off as he looked at Sherlock, who was drumming on the arm of his chair. ‘If you’re interested —’
‘I’m interested.’ The words rapped out.
‘You don’t know what it is yet —’
‘Then tell me.’
The Inspector looked in my direction. ‘There are some, ah, points which I am not sure Mrs Hudson would wish to hear.’
I made an effort not to clench my hands or frown. ‘I am a woman of the world, Inspector. I can always leave the room if your narrative distresses me.’
He chuckled. ‘Very well, since you will have it your way. It concerns a Mrs Euphemia Stanley —’ Inspector Gregson’s eyes narrowed. ‘I perceive you have heard of the lady in question.’
I nodded. Genial and clubbable as the Inspector seemed, he was sharp too. ‘I wouldn’t say know, exactly —’
‘Mrs Hudson intercepted the coded letter which revealed Emmett Stanley’s plan to rob the Bank of England,’ Sherlock said, smoothly. ‘She befriended Mrs Stanley over tea at Brown’s Hotel, in disguise.’
The Inspector whistled. ‘I didn’t know that.’ He looked me over as if he hadn’t seen me before. ‘That is interesting.’ He coughed. ‘Although it probably disqualifies you from further participation in this case.’
‘What has happened?’ I asked.
‘Mrs Stanley was at breakfast yesterday when her footman announced that a parcel had arrived. She was expecting a parcel from her milliner, so she ordered it to be brought in.’ The Inspector paused. ‘I imagine you have already guessed that the parcel did not contain the hat she was expecting.’
The Inspector glanced at me. ‘A human foot.’
‘What?’ we exclaimed.
‘A human foot, quite a large one, size eleven or thereabouts, severed at the ankle bone. No distinguishing features. It had been packed in straw, with a silk cloth wrapped around the bundle. And there was a note, I have it here.’ The Inspector fished in the inside pocket of his jacket, bringing out a folded sheet of white paper.
‘Was the note folded like that in the parcel?’ Sherlock asked, springing up and peering at it.
‘It was. Though I doubt that will help you solve the mystery.’ He held the note out to Sherlock, who took it to the window. I followed him, while the Inspector stayed seated in his chair.
‘Tell your husband to keep his mouth shut,’ Sherlock read aloud. ‘But surely —’
‘It’s the first thing we checked,’ said the Inspector. ‘Emmett Stanley is locked up safe and sound in Wandsworth Prison. I spent half an hour with him yesterday, and unless he’s a very good actor, he had no idea what was going on.’
Sherlock looked down at the note. ‘Cheap white paper, clean, ripped from a book.’ He held it to the light. ‘No watermark.’ I was standing next to him, and suddenly I noticed a faint odour that reminded me of a butcher’s shop. My stomach heaved, and I sat down hurriedly.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Hudson?’ asked the Inspector.
I swallowed. ‘I’m fine.’
Sherlock fetched a magnifying glass. ‘Printed in block characters, using a Cross stylographic pen. Black ink, I think Stephens, very common. Ha!’ He dropped the note on the bureau, then frowned and picked it up again, bringing it close to his face.
‘Can you see something?’ I asked.
‘No…’ Sherlock responded. He closed his eyes. ‘Nell, take the note. What do you smell?’
He handed me the note. I closed my eyes, inhaled, and my mouth twisted at the hint of dung, the rotting meat smell, and… My eyes snapped open.
Sherlock was staring at me. ‘What did you smell? Not the obvious, the other.’
I shook my head to try and clear it. ‘Jasmine. I smelt jasmine.’ I looked up at Sherlock. ‘But — what —’
There was a loud knock at the door. ‘Not now, Billy,’ snapped Sherlock.
‘Sir, it’s important!’ Billy shouted. ‘A telegram for the Inspector, they’ve sent it on from Scotland Yard.’
The Inspector jumped up, flung open the door, and snatched the telegram from Billy’s hand. We watched him rip it open. His face sagged, and he stood motionless, the telegram in his hand, staring into space.
‘What is it?’ Sherlock crossed to the Inspector. ‘What is it, Inspector?’ He took the telegram from the Inspector’s unresisting hand and scanned it. ‘Oh my God.’ He passed it to me and I read:
Emmett Stanley vanished from Wandsworth STOP Cell empty.
CHAPTER 4
‘There is not a moment to lose,’ muttered Sherlock, gathering up his necessary belongings — a magnifying glass, his pipe and tobacco, a notebook — and looking round for his coat.
‘It’s in the hall,’ I said, ‘shall I bring it?’
‘Please.’ When I returned, carrying his coat and my own, the Inspector had moved closer to Sherlock, and appeared to be having a quiet word, since both looked up rather guiltily at my entrance.
‘Did I miss something?’ I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
‘Not at all,’ said the Inspector, as I handed Sherlock his coat. He shrugged it on and filled its pockets. ‘I hadn’t realised you dabbled in detective work.’
I considered how best to respond to that. ‘I used to do analysis for Inspector Lestrade,’ I said. ‘When I met Mr Holmes, he needed an assistant.’
‘I take it you’re quite observant, then.’
I surveyed Inspector Gregson, from his polished black shoes to his neatly-parted hair. ‘I think so.’
‘Are you seeking work at present, Mrs Hudson?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘I have some time available,’ I replied, after a pause. Inside, though, I was jumping up and down, desperate to know what the Inspector had in mind.
He looked down at me and smiled. ‘You’re a cool hand, Mrs Hudson. Here.’ He reached into his pocket and handed me a card. ‘I said I’d send someone their way.’
The card was a thick white pasteboard: Debenham & Freebody, Wigmore Street. The name above had been scratched out, and Mr Turner added, in slightly shaky capitals. ‘I’m not sure I understand, Inspector,’ I said, looking up at him.
Inspector Gregson put a fatherly hand on my shoulder. ‘If you pop along and see Mr Turner, he’ll explain it to you.’
‘But I —’
‘This doesn’t need three of us,’ the Inspector said, firmly.
‘Expect me when you see me, Nell,’ said Sherlock, and leaned down to peck me on the cheek. ‘I’ll wire.’ And he was gone, his feet thundering downstairs.
‘Good luck, Mrs Hudson,’ said the Inspector. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
***
I knew Debenham and Freebody well, having visited the department store many times to purchase stockings and gloves. It was no more than fifteen minutes’ walk from Baker Street. It had also, once upon a time, been the haberdashers I had used as a front for my various secret expeditions. I had no idea why the Inspector would require me to go there, though.
‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ cooed one of the assistants, as I walked in. ‘What can I interest you in today?’
I approached the counter and drew out my card. ‘I wish to see Mr Turner, please.’
The assistant looked down her nose at me. ‘What would that be concerning, ma’am?’
‘Inspector Gregson advised me of some work,’ I said, trying not to blush. However, the word ‘Inspector’ had acted as a tonic on the assistant, who was already hastening away. She reappeared a minute later, her shoes clacking on the parquet floor. ‘He will be with you directly, ma’am.’
Mr Turner was a small, neat, elderly man, his hair suspiciously black. I had put on my most businesslike hat and gloves, but he still eyed me with suspicion. ‘This is not what I had in mind,’ he muttered. I was unsure whether I had been meant to hear or not.
‘Mr Turner?’ I said, stepping forward and extending a hand. ‘I am Mrs Hudson. Inspector Gregson mentioned that you were looking for someone.’
‘Yes, yes, indeed.’ He frowned. ‘Come this way.’
Mr Turner held open an elegant door at the side of the shop, and I followed him down a narrow corridor to a small office, the desk stacked with papers and ledgers. ‘Do take a seat, Mrs, er —’
‘Hudson.’ I sat in the chair he had waved at, and he took the chair behind the desk. When he was seated I could just see the top half of his face above the piles of paper.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, irritably. ‘So did the Inspector explain?’
‘He said you would,’ I replied, feeling foolish. I suspected the Inspector would not have sent Sherlock into a situation without briefing him.
‘It’s simple,’ said Mr Turner. ‘Pilfering. Our merchandise is small and easy to steal. People come in, browse, wander about, perhaps buy a metre of ribbon, and all the time they’ve got three pairs of gloves in their muff. I compare the stock inventory to the receipts, and it’s obvious.’ He swung from side to side on his chair, gripping the desk. ‘I thought it might be one of the staff, but nothing turned up, not after several searches.’ I blushed at the thought. ‘So.’
‘So…?’
‘So I need someone to stop ’em.’ Mr Turner glared at me. ‘I must admit I was hoping the Inspector would send a policeman round. That would make them jump!’ He smacked the desk and I jumped.
‘I don’t suppose that would be good for business,’ I replied, when I had recovered myself.
‘I’m not having it!’ Mr Turner bounced in his seat with indignation. I waited until he had composed hims
elf before asking what exactly it was he wished me to do.
He looked at me doubtfully. ‘Catch ’em, of course. Pretend you’re shopping, watch ’em, and catch ’em. I don’t care how. It’s all the same to me if you call the doorman, or make ’em put it back. So long as the thieving stops. We’re losing money, you know.’
‘Speaking of money … what salary do you have in mind?’ I felt a little embarrassed to introduce the topic, but as money was pressing I felt obliged.
Mr Turner swivelled in his chair and sucked his teeth. ‘Well, it’s not as if you’re a real policeman, madam. Our assistants are on eight shillings a week.’
‘Mr Turner, do you expect me to do a policeman’s job for eight shillings a week?’ I began to rise from my chair.
‘Wait, madam.’ Mr Turner flapped a hand at me to resume my seat. ‘Perhaps we can work something out.’
In the end, after negotiation on both sides, we settled that I was to start the next week on a trial basis, working in the afternoons, and receive a full assistant’s salary. Mr Turner got up and stretched across the desk to shake my hand.
‘There’s just one more thing,’ I said. ‘I can’t do it as myself.’
Mr Turner sank into his chair and stared at me. ‘What?’
I folded my hands in my lap. ‘Consider, Mr Turner. If I frequent your store always looking more or less the same, then the people who steal from you will learn to spot me. And I do have my other work to think about.’ I chose not to add that I did not particularly want anyone of my acquaintance to know that I was working in a department store.
Mr Turner’s expression changed from incredulity to something like respect. ‘You make a good point there, Mrs Hudson.’ Then his face grew suspicious. ‘Make sure you report to me when you arrive each morning. I don’t want any mistakes.’ I wondered what sort of mistakes he might mean, before realising that an unfamiliar woman loitering in a department store might find herself being escorted from the premises, if not worse.
Mr Turner got up, came round the desk and held out his hand again. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Hudson. I will expect you in my office at half past twelve on Monday.’ His eyes burned with the zeal of a responsible shopkeeper. ‘A week’s trial.’
In Sherlock's Shadow (Mrs Hudson & Sherlock Holmes Book 2) Page 2