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

by Liz Hedgecock

  ‘Mm.’ He squeezed water down my back. ‘It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?’

  ‘You could say that.’ I wiggled my shoulders. ‘Did you talk to Dr Watson?’

  ‘I did,’ Sherlock ran the sponge down my back again. ‘It’s not as much fun as talking to you.’

  ‘And?’ I persisted.

  ‘He’ll visit Emmett Stanley tomorrow.’

  ‘What shall we be doing?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Do you definitely need me?’

  The sponge stopped. ‘What, would you rather be apprehending ribbon thieves?’

  ‘That isn’t the point,’ I said, glad Sherlock couldn’t see my face. ‘I would prefer to be consulted, that’s all.’

  ‘I would like you to come, Nell,’ Sherlock said, at length. ‘I think you’ll be useful.’

  ‘Then I shall come,’ I said.

  I stiffened at another tap on the door. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, Martha?’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but Mr Poskitt is here.’

  ‘Can you tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes?’

  ‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘Do you know where Mr Holmes is?’

  ‘I’ll let him know,’ I called. Sherlock shook with silent laughter.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Martha, crisply.

  We waited until her footsteps had receded downstairs before emerging from the bath. ‘I wonder what he has come for,’ Sherlock mused, towelling himself vigorously. ‘A progress report, perhaps.’

  I wrapped myself in my dressing gown. ‘I hope it’s not —’ Our eyes met. ‘More bad news.’

  Sherlock flung his clothes on. ‘I’ll go down. Join us when you’re ready.’ We left the bathroom together, Sherlock bounding down the stairs to the drawing room, while I hurried to the bedroom and put myself back into the dress I had been wearing.

  I heard voices as I approached the drawing room, which ceased when I knocked. ‘Come in, Nell,’ called Sherlock.

  I pushed the door open and my smile faded at the grave expressions before me. ‘You were right,’ said Sherlock, glancing at Mr Poskitt.

  ‘I was just telling Mr Holmes and Dr Watson.’ Even in crisis, Mr Poskitt was as formal as ever. ‘Mr Holmes has been suspended from his duties. On full pay, but nevertheless, suspended.’ He looked ready to weep.

  ‘I am so sorry.’ I sat next to Sherlock on the settee. ‘Why, Mr Poskitt? What has happened?’

  ‘More secrets,’ Mr Poskitt said miserably. ‘More betrayal.’ His hands gripped his stick so hard that his knuckles were white. ‘An ambush at Port Said this time, with many casualties. We are doing our best to keep it out of the newspapers, but word will spread eventually. No doubt the mole will make sure it does. Our tame ambassador tipped us off again.’

  ‘But why has Mycroft been suspended?’ Sherlock was on the edge of his seat, brow furrowed.

  ‘He tried to get into a meeting.’ Mr Poskitt passed a hand over his forehead. ‘He hadn’t been invited, and he bluffed his way in. When Sir William Chambers, the Secretary for War, ejected him, Mr Holmes was, apparently, very rude.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Mycroft,’ I said, softly.

  ‘You haven’t lived with him,’ said Sherlock. ‘So that’s why he’s suspended? For being rude?’

  ‘Partly,’ sighed Mr Poskitt. ‘I have been listening to the whispers in the corners, and the view is that your brother is a — loose cannon. I know it is wrong; but Mr Holmes’s — ah — impulsive behaviour towards Sir William has lent the theory some weight, and given the circumstances…’

  ‘I see,’ said Sherlock. ‘Oh God, he’ll be beside himself —’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Mycroft without an occupation … it doesn’t bear thinking about. He’ll turn himself inside out. He’ll eat himself alive. I had better go and see him.’ He sprang up, but Mr Poskitt shook his head.

  ‘Not yet, Mr Holmes. He is still angry, and he has said harsh words about you, too.’

  ‘Then what can I do?’ Sherlock began to pace.

  ‘We must find the mole,’ said Mr Poskitt, simply.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ snapped Sherlock. ‘Who are the suspects?’

  ‘Not suspects,’ Mr Poskitt said, with a look of distaste. ‘Possibilities.’

  Sherlock wheeled round. ‘Who are they?’

  Mr Poskitt chewed the question over. ‘By naming people, I do not mean to suggest that they are likely to have leaked state secrets,’ he said slowly. ‘It is merely that they have access to them.’

  ‘That is understood,’ said Sherlock.

  ‘Very well. Mr Holmes is the only person privy to these matters who is not part of the Ministry of Defence. Apart from the Prime Minister, of course. I think we may rule him out,’ Mr Poskitt said, with a dry little smile.

  ‘And secrets at this level?’

  Mr Poskitt sighed. ‘The Foreign Secretary, the Secretary for War, and the Under-Secretary for War. Plus their secretaries. Men who have served the nation for years. Men of the utmost discretion, with impeccable records.’

  ‘I see.’ Sherlock flung himself back onto the settee. ‘So Mycroft makes an easy scapegoat.’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ said Mr Poskitt, studying the rug.

  Sherlock stared at the fire. ‘I had one of my Baker Street Irregulars tail Mycroft, you know. Mycroft spotted him immediately.’ He got up and poked the coals, sending sparks up the chimney. ‘I imagine the men you speak of will be no different.’

  ‘Could you shadow one of them?’ pleaded Mr Poskitt.

  Sherlock shrugged. ‘I could. But if they spot me, and it comes out that I am Mycroft’s brother, I doubt that will work in his favour.’ He pushed his hair back. ‘I met Sir William and his deputy at an event last year.’

  Mr Poskitt’s shoulders drooped. ‘There must be something…’

  Sherlock sighed. ‘Get me everything you can about the three of them. Friends, clubs, families, the lot.’ He stood and held out a hand. ‘I can do no more for now.’

  Mr Poskitt rose too, and shook the proffered hand. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I know you will do what you can.’ He left the room as if he had been handed a death sentence.

  ‘Damn Mycroft!’ Sherlock exclaimed as soon as the front door had closed. ‘What business does he have getting into this sort of scrape?’

  ‘Now, Holmes, I don’t think he meant to,’ said Dr Watson, laying a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Sherlock, shaking him off and beginning to pace again. ‘I’m not my brother’s keeper —’

  A tap at the door. ‘Shall I bring dinner in?’ called Martha.

  ‘You may as well,’ Sherlock replied, pulling the door open and almost upsetting Martha as he strode by.

  ‘Sorry, Martha,’ said Dr Watson, steadying her. ‘Mr Holmes has had some bad news.’

  ‘So I see,’ she remarked, straightening her cap.

  Sherlock pushed the excellent food around his plate, before throwing his napkin into the middle of it. ‘I’m going upstairs to think,’ he said, pushing back his chair. The door banged behind him.

  I looked at Dr Watson. ‘You don’t think he’s…’

  The doctor chewed, considering, then swallowed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He knows I know,’ I blurted. ‘I caught him, and smashed the cocaine bottle.’

  ‘In that case I doubt Holmes has had time to procure another supply.’ He forced a smile.

  ‘You don’t seem particularly concerned, Dr Watson.’ I put my knife and fork together on the plate.

  ‘My concern is neither here nor there,’ the doctor retorted. ‘Holmes is a law unto himself. I doubt that you or I could stop him from doing anything. Excuse me.’ His heavy tread proceeded upstairs.

  I tapped at the consulting-room door before entering. Sherlock was folded into an armchair, arms round knees, and appeared almost to be in a trance. ‘Trust Mycroft to get himself into a mess,’ he remarked.

&nb
sp; ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

  He snorted. ‘If you mean have I taken cocaine, then no, I haven’t; tempted as I am. My mind is in a maze — running, doubling, finding dead end after dead end.’

  ‘Perhaps you should wait for Mr Poskitt’s dossiers.’ I sat on the arm of the chair and stroked his hair. ‘They may help.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Sherlock. But he rose, and followed me downstairs.

  CHAPTER 19

  I stirred and reached out for Sherlock, but my hand met with a cool sheet. I opened my eyes. It was starting to get light. I strained my ears, and heard kitchen noises downstairs.

  Sherlock came in. ‘You’re early,’ I said.

  ‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry.’ He leaned over and kissed me, bringing a faint whiff of shaving soap and tooth powder with him.

  ‘I was waking up anyway. What time is it?’

  ‘A quarter past seven, or so.’ He sat beside me and buttoned his shirt to the neck. ‘I had to do something. I’ve sent Billy to wire the Inspector, asking him to meet us at Wandsworth Prison. I’ve wired the governor to expect us. Oh, and I’ve knocked Watson up.’

  ‘I imagine he was delighted.’

  ‘There’s work to be done. Come on, lazybones.’ He extended a hand to me.

  I swatted it away. ‘How many times have I left you sleeping, Sherlock?’

  Sherlock frowned. ‘I see I shall have to use additional persuasion.’ He waved his long fingers in the air before lifting the sheet and tickling me.

  ‘All right, I’m getting up!’ I shrieked, swinging my legs down and running to unhook my dressing gown as protection.

  Martha served up bacon and eggs. ‘You’ll need a proper breakfast, going out at this hour,’ she scolded. Dr Watson hunched blearily over his plate, ruminating.

  ‘Any thoughts on the patient, Watson?’ Sherlock asked between bites of toast.

  Dr Watson shook his head. ‘I shall reserve judgement until I have seen him, Holmes. Patient is the key word, you know.’

  ‘Dr Watson, I am not sure that yesterday would be quick enough for Mr Holmes.’ I reached for the salt and pepper, considering my egg before seasoning it.

  ‘You’re a pair of slow-coaches,’ said Sherlock; but he was smiling as he said it.

  After breakfast we repaired to the consulting room, where Sherlock pulled three volumes from the bookcase, piling them on the table. ‘Here are volumes I-J and V-W of my index, and Edmund’s Toxicology. Jasmine or winter jasmine.’ He picked up the top volume, and Dr Watson and I took the others.

  ‘Anything?’ Sherlock asked two minutes later, putting his book back on the table.

  ‘Not much,’ said Dr Watson. ‘The worst thing I have discovered about jasmine is that it may cause skin irritation. From what you have told me of Mr Stanley, I imagine that is the least of his problems.’

  ‘It’s used in perfumes and can be made into tea,’ I said, closing my book. ‘Oh, and some countries use it in celebrations and rituals.’

  ‘I can contribute nothing better,’ said Sherlock. ‘Another dead end. Let us hope that the rest of our day is more fruitful.’

  Our cab drew up outside Wandsworth Prison at a quarter past nine. ‘The day will be well along here,’ said Sherlock, handing me out. We walked to the gatehouse arm in arm. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes and Mrs Hudson,’ said Sherlock to the guard.

  ‘You’re expected,’ he replied, touching his cap and waving us through.

  The looming building still had the power to chill me. I tried to shake the feeling off as we approached the great studded door, but it only grew stronger.

  We were shown to the governor’s office. ‘You are betimes,’ he said, rising and waving us to the chairs set in front of his desk. ‘Inspector Gregson has not yet arrived.’ He raised an inquiring eyebrow. ‘I believe you have identified three persons you wish to speak to.’

  ‘Yes, three of your warders. We think one of them might have been instrumental in kidnapping Emmett Stanley.’ Sherlock stretched his legs.

  ‘Names?’ The governor reached for his pipe.

  Sherlock reached into his inner pocket and pulled out the pen portraits we had pored over the day before. ‘Thomas Palmer, William Coates, and Simeon Davies,’ he said, handing the sheets to the governor.

  The governor pressed a bell on his desk. Two minutes later a dark, well-dressed young man entered.

  ‘Lawrence, get Palmer, Coates and Davies brought to the warders’ recreation room. If any man is not on duty, send someone to bring him in.’

  ‘Sir.’ The young man half-bowed, and closed the door gently behind him.

  ‘My secretary,’ said the governor. ‘Very good man, Lawrence. He’ll be back in a few minutes, see if he isn’t.’

  Mr Lawrence proved the governor right by returning two minutes later. ‘Coates and Davies are on their way, sir, and Sage is fetching Palmer. He lives two streets away, so if he is at home it is a matter of minutes.’

  ‘At this rate he will be here before the Inspector,’ chuckled the governor. ‘Thank you, Lawrence.’

  Mr Lawrence bowed, and withdrew.

  ‘He’s an Oxbridge man, you know,’ said the governor, indicating the door Mr Lawrence had passed through. ‘Son of a friend. I was hesitant about taking him on, but now I wouldn’t be without him.’

  ‘Good staff are hard to find,’ said Sherlock.

  ‘Quite so, quite so.’ The governor flicked through the pen portraits Sherlock had handed him. ‘Hmm, yes.’

  A tap at the door, and Lawrence entered again. ‘Inspector Gregson is here, sir.’

  ‘Wonderful. Show him in, and bring another chair.’

  The Inspector sat down and looked at us expectantly. ‘Are the men ready?’

  ‘Two are, the other is being fetched,’ said Sherlock.

  ‘Excellent.’ The Inspector rubbed his hands. ‘We’ll deal with the first two, then.’

  ‘Now, don’t overdo it,’ said the governor. ‘Innocent till proven guilty, Inspector Gregson. I have trouble keeping a full roster as it is.’

  Mr Lawrence led us down the corridor which, as he turned the corner, transformed from a wide, carpeted, well-lit space to a narrow, bare run. ‘Here we are,’ he said, opening a blue wooden door marked Recreation. ‘I would suggest that you interview in this room, since it has a table and chairs, and put the other man in the anteroom.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Sherlock. ‘Inspector, will you take the lead?’

  ‘I generally do,’ said Inspector Gregson, striding in. Sherlock held the door open for me, then followed.

  The two men were sitting on the long side of the table, heads together. They jumped apart at the Inspector’s entrance, their eyes darting between the three of us.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the Inspector. ‘I’ll take you one at a time, if I may. You first.’ He pointed at the man sitting on the left. ‘You, wait in the anteroom, please.’ The second man got up and walked to another blue door set into the back wall, glancing at us again before he left.

  The Inspector sat heavily in the middle chair, pulling out a notebook and pen. ‘Name?’

  ‘Simeon Davies,’ replied the remaining man, a slight fellow with thinning brown hair, though his features suggested he could be no more than thirty.

  Sherlock and I hurried to sit down. The Inspector continued, confirming age, address, and length of service. ‘Do you know why you are here, Davies?’

  Davies shook his head. ‘Mr Lawrence just said I was to come.’

  ‘Did he.’ The inspector sat back and tapped his teeth with the pen. ‘It concerns the abduction of Emmett Stanley.’

  ‘Who is Emmett Stanley?’ Davies’s expression was innocent and blank as a freshly-laundered sheet.

  ‘One of the prisoners. A now former inmate. He was in E wing, and he was taken last week.’

  ‘Oh!’ Davies’ mouth formed a perfect O. ‘How did that happen? I don’t know E wing at all. I’m new, you see.’

  Sherlock and I exchanged
glances behind the Inspector’s back. Either Davies was innocent, or he ought to have been on the London stage.

  The Inspector established quickly that at the time of Emmett Stanley’s disappearance, while the prisoners had been in the exercise yard, Davies had been with another warder, first restraining a prisoner who had collapsed in a fit, then accompanying him to the dispensary. ‘He struggled something awful, sir, you wouldn’t believe. It was all Trevor and I could do to stop him swallowing his tongue.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ The Inspector made a note. ‘Which wing do you work on?’

  ‘A wing, sir, right over the other side.’

  ‘What did you do when you went off duty?’

  ‘I went down to the billiard hall, sir, and played a couple of matches. My friends will vouch for it.’

  Davies was sent back to work, and Coates summoned in his place. He was a pale sickly man, who coughed as he took his seat.

  ‘You don’t seem well,’ observed the Inspector.

  ‘No,’ Coates coughed again. ‘I have only just been signed fit to return to work. Bad bout of pneumonia. I’ve always had a weak chest.’

  ‘Were you at work on the sixteenth?’

  Coates shook his head. ‘I was laid up at home. My neighbour was so worried that he called the doctor out.’

  ‘And your doctor is…?’

  ‘Dr Delaney. He has a surgery in Garratt Lane.’

  The Inspector made a note. He asked a few more questions about length of service and knowledge of the prisoner, but I could see that his heart wasn’t in it, and he had dismissed Coates out of hand. He sent Coates to cough his way back to work. ‘Where’s this Palmer fellow, I wonder? Surely he hasn’t flown the coop.’

  We made small talk for some minutes, until the sound of quick footsteps made us look to the door. It sprang open, and Mr Lawrence came in, leaving it ajar. ‘Sage and the governor are behind me.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down without ceremony.

  ‘What has happened?’ asked the Inspector.

  ‘The governor will be here directly,’ said Mr Lawrence.

  A few seconds later the governor appeared, out of breath and flustered, and behind him trailed the wheezing form of Sage. ‘What a carry on,’ he said, clutching the door frame and catching his breath before ambling into the room.