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

by Liz Hedgecock

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Lawrence, his brow clearing. ‘It is rather irregular, though.’

  ‘You see,’ Sherlock lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘I wonder if one of the other staff might be involved. Someone in the kitchen, or the stores. Perhaps we made a mistake in focusing solely on the warders. Is there anyone that you would have in mind, Mr Lawrence?’

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean,’ said Mr Lawrence, nodding sagely. ‘Now that I think of it, there are a couple of men in the kitchens who, shall we say, have experience on the other side…’ He tapped his nose. ‘I can let you have their names, and I daresay a glance at the pay-bill, for thoroughness, will not be out of the question.’

  Mr Lawrence instructed us to wait when we arrived at the well-appointed area outside the governor’s office. He hurried to the door, tapped a little pattern, waited a second, and we heard Mr Jonas’s voice, with a smile in it, say ‘Come!’

  He came out a few minutes later, beaming, and opened a small, plain door which I had not noticed before, painted to match the wall. ‘This is my domain.’

  Mr Lawrence’s office was small but comfortable, with a leather-topped desk, a padded chair, and rows of filing cabinets. It was decorated with a selection of watercolours. ‘The Lake District?’ queried Sherlock.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘We spent our summers up there, and my sisters are addicted to painting.’

  ‘Ah, are you one of the Cumbria Lawrences, then, near Penrith?’

  ‘We are!’ beamed Mr Lawrence. The Inspector and I stepped back and exchanged glances as Mr Lawrence and Sherlock talked of fell-climbing and the ascent of something called Scafell Pike, which sounded both difficult and dangerous, but which apparently both men had accomplished.

  ‘I suppose we had better get to the pay-bill,’ Sherlock said regretfully.

  ‘Indeed we should.’ Mr Lawrence chuckled. ‘I shall let you read it first, and then I will show you the men I have my suspicions about.’

  Inspector Gregson stepped forward. ‘Might I see the list too?’ I wished he could have managed to make his voice a little less plaintive.

  ‘Of course you can, Inspector!’ Mr Lawrence said brightly, as if granting a special indulgence. He pulled a ledger from the top drawer of his desk and riffled through the pages of beautiful copperplate. ‘Here we are!’

  There did not seem much point in joining the party. Three heads were already bent over the ledger, and there was no room for me. I walked to the wall and examined the watercolours instead. ‘View over Buttermere, June 1879’, ‘Wrynose Pass, August 1880.’ These were signed TL, in black ink with a fine flourish. I was no judge, but to my eye they looked accomplished. What must it be like to have a summer home to go to, and to have accomplishments? I wondered whether TL was married now, perhaps with children, and whether she had the time and inclination to wander off and paint landscapes. I grew meaner and more tawdry to myself as I gazed at the expansive, generous landscapes that TL had painted. If you and Sherlock do marry, said that small, mean voice, will he suggest a honeymoon scrambling over rocks and gazing at scenery?

  I shook my head impatiently to get rid of it, and listened instead to Mr Lawrence. ‘These are the two I had in mind — here.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sherlock. ‘What makes you suspect them?’

  ‘There is a certain amount of history…’ Mr Lawrence’s voice dropped, as if the words were unfit for my ears. After a few seconds, both Sherlock and the Inspector laughed. I felt my face growing warm, and wished I were anywhere but here — patrolling the department store, or gossiping with Lottie, or even planning menus at Baker Street. I heard pages turning behind me. I walked further away, and studied ‘Coniston Old Man,’ this time by AL.

  ‘Something puzzles me,’ said Sherlock. ‘In fact, it seems positively criminal.’ His voice was light, playful. I tried to relax my shoulders, to seem as if everything was normal; but my ears were straining. ‘Lawrence, your salary is positively negligible! What are you thinking of, old man!’

  Lawrence’s answering laugh was full-bodied, unrestrained. ‘Holmes, you forget that I am a stripling learning my trade. I have been in my current post less than a year, and I am scarcely twenty-two years old.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sherlock’s voice was considering, elder-brotherly. ‘But a Cambridge man, surviving on such meagre wages? How on earth do you do it?’

  ‘Oh, it is not as bad as all that,’ Mr Lawrence purred. ‘I have an allowance, you know, and that sees me through. But between you and me, I am looking about for a private secretary post.’

  ‘Of course you are!’ I heard a thump which could only be a clap on the back. ‘I would expect nothing less from a man such as yourself! Now, show me those two rogues again and I’ll take their names down. I feel another round of interviews coming on.’

  ‘Might I sit in?’ Mr Lawrence’s voice was eager.

  ‘Nothing easier!’ Sherlock exclaimed. ‘I have more than one case on the go, though, so I can’t say when it will be. I should be somewhere else this very minute, really.’

  ‘The detective in demand,’ smiled Mr Lawrence. ‘I must ask you — how did you know I was a Cambridge man?’

  ‘Oh, that was simple,’ Sherlock said airily. ‘It’s the set of your pocket-handkerchief. I’d know it anywhere.’

  ‘Oh, are you Cambridge too?’ Mr Lawrence sounded genuinely delighted.

  ‘Peterhouse,’ said Sherlock, carelessly. ‘I left before the Tripos nonsense, though. Waste of time, in my opinion.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Mr Lawrence nodded agreement.

  ‘I suppose you took yours?’ Sherlock inquired, solicitously.

  ‘Lower Second,’ admitted Mr Lawrence.

  ‘Capital!’ exclaimed Sherlock. ‘A fine mind, but not a slave to work. The best degree there is. I take it you didn’t work?’ he muttered confidentially.

  ‘Oh good Lord, no,’ Mr Lawrence assured his new friend.

  ‘Thank heaven for that,’ said Sherlock grandly. ‘Here’s my card. Look me up at my rooms if you’re ever in the area.’

  ‘I shall,’ said Mr Lawrence, putting it in the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Thank you, Holmes. I would return the favour, but my own rooms are not in an area or a state where I can encourage visitors.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Sherlock, inclining his head gravely. ‘We’ve all been there.’

  I waited until we had bade the Inspector farewell and hailed a cab before speaking further. ‘Was all that peacocking really necessary?’

  He chuckled. ‘I think so. I am sorry that you and the Inspector had to endure it, but I was testing young Lawrence. He is susceptible to flattery, impressed by status and wealth, and I suspect he has been placed as the governor’s secretary with the promise of much more to come. I imagine he saw the abduction of Emmett Stanley, followed by the murder and framing of Thomas Palmer, as little more than an elaborate initiation ritual. A way, heaven help us, to prove that he has the “guts” for further responsibilities.’

  I shuddered. ‘All right. What happens next?’

  ‘Lawrence will set all manner of red herrings before me. Perhaps I shall let the Inspector have them. Meanwhile, I shall put a watch on his rooms.’

  ‘But you don’t know —’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ Sherlock pulled out a small black notebook and wrote rapidly. Third Floor, Laurel Mansions, Water Street, Wandsworth. ‘All the addresses were on the pay-bill. I shall also be making inquiries about his time at Cambridge, and his acquaintance there.’

  ‘Sherlock … did you really know Lawrence was a Cambridge man because of his pocket-handkerchief?’

  ‘Oh, that!’ he grinned. ‘An abominable piece of showmanship, I am afraid. No, the pale blue pennant on the wall was the giveaway, but no-one would have been impressed with that. I want Lawrence to feel he is in safe hands — protected even, until the moment comes.’

  ‘Did you really leave Cambridge before taking your exams?’

  Sherlock snorted. ‘I was
never there.’ He drew the blind up and gazed out of the window, and was quickly lost in thought.

  I had plenty to think over, too. Sherlock’s easy assumption of the privileged ‘old boy’ manner had shaken me. What on earth would his family think of me; a girl from Clerkenwell, a policeman’s wife, a former school-teacher? I recalled what Sherlock had said of their treatment of him and Mycroft. Perhaps if Mycroft were the favoured one, Sherlock’s choice of wife would not matter; but what if it did? On impulse I took off my glove and reached for Sherlock’s hand.

  He turned back to me, smiling. ‘I was in a world of my own, Nell.’

  ‘What were you thinking?’

  His smile broadened. ‘I was considering the various drugs which Lawrence might have used to paralyse Thomas Palmer.’

  I smiled back. ‘Of course you were.’

  ‘I shall have to wait for Carter’s report, of course, but I have three substances in mind, all of which are controlled and difficult to obtain. A possible route to the centre of the spider’s web.’ Sherlock squeezed my hand, enveloping it in his long, slim fingers.

  It was already mid-afternoon when we arrived back at Baker Street, and the day was beginning to fade. Another day lost at the shop, I thought, wondering if I should ever get back there.

  The door opened almost before the cab had stopped. ‘There you are!’ Billy exclaimed. ‘I’ve a telegram for you, the boy said it was urgent.’

  ‘An urgent telegram, eh?’ said Sherlock, jumping down. ‘I’d better see it then.’

  ‘Oh no, sir, it isn’t for you,’ said Billy, looking a trifle embarrassed. ‘It’s for Mrs Hudson.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Please visit me S House Attic 4 this pm STOP Opportunity STOP Tell no one P

  I crumpled the telegram in my hand. ‘I need to collect something, and then I shall go out again. Billy, could you possibly make me a sandwich?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’ Billy vanished into the house.

  ‘What is it?’ Sherlock looked half-amused, half-concerned.

  ‘I’ll tell you later, if I can.’ I went into the house and ran upstairs. Where had I last seen the key to Attic Four? It was not in the consulting-room bureau, where I had expected to find it, but lying in the small glass tray on the dressing table, mixed up with stray cufflinks, ticket stubs, and other odds and ends.

  Billy knocked. ‘Your sandwich, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, Billy.’ I ate half the sandwich in a few bites, then took the other half downstairs with me.

  Sherlock was in the hall. ‘I kept the cab for you,’ he said, his expression neutral.

  ‘Thank you.’ I stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  ‘Good luck. Whatever it is.’

  I opened the door as Sherlock went through to the drawing room. I knew he would watch me go.

  ‘Charing Cross Station, please,’ I said to the cab driver. Somerset House was a short walk, and anyone overhearing my destination could make little of it.

  I spent the journey in puzzled speculation. What does Mr Poskitt want with me? And what is so secret that I can confide in nobody? By the time the cab drew up outside the station I was no wiser.

  ‘Pleasure trip is it, ma’am?’ the cabman said as I paid my fare.

  ‘That’s right,’ I smiled. ‘Just a short one.’

  ‘Hope you enjoy it.’ He touched his hat. I walked into the station, out of a different exit, and cut down Craven Street to the Embankment. As I strolled along I felt the little key in my palm.

  The Embankment was quiet at this time of day, but I looked around before slipping into the shadows. The key turned easily and I whisked in, closing and re-locking the door. A short corridor separated me from the main hall, and it was empty.

  I knew the way to Attic 4 from the back stairs; but I did not know how to get to the back stairs save by walking through the main hall. Would I be stopped, and asked for identification? I put my eye to the keyhole and peered. Men and women were criss-crossing the hall, some carrying documents, all with a sense of purpose. I was plainly dressed, in a style similar to the women I was observing, except that they were bareheaded. I would have to take the risk, and if I were stopped, rely on Mr Poskitt to get me out of trouble. I removed my hat and shawl and stuffed them into my bag, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  I was in luck. Near the door was an alcove, in which stood a trolley full of post. I flicked through the items and pulled out a large buff envelope addressed to Miss C Jamieson, Room 209A. Clutching it to my chest, I hurried across the great hall, looking neither left nor right. No footsteps followed me. No outcry was made. I gained the corridor which I knew led to the back stairs, and turned left. Only when I was safely on the back stairs did I allow myself a sigh of relief.

  Up I went, flight after flight, to the top of the building, to an uncarpeted, unlit, narrow corridor. It was so dark that when I came to Attic Four I felt the number on the door to check the scanty evidence my eyes presented me with.

  Satisfied I was in the right place, my hand found the doorknob, but I hesitated. Could it be a trap? I cursed my lack of forethought. Sherlock would have considered the possibility immediately. Then I heard the funny, nervous little sound of Mr Poskitt clearing his throat. I would have known it anywhere. I smiled at my doubts, and opened the door.

  Mr Poskitt rose as soon as the door opened. He had been perched on an upturned box. Another box was set opposite, with a cushion for me. ‘You came!’ he cried.

  ‘Didn’t you think I would?’ I answered. We shook hands and I took my seat on the box.

  ‘And no-one knows you’re here?’ he asked, his eyes darting to the door. He got up suddenly and locked it, leaving the key in the lock.

  ‘I have told no-one, and no-one has seen the telegram. I have it with me. I took a cab to Charing Cross Station, cut through, and walked here. I was not followed.’

  ‘Good, good. Well, I suppose I had better get on to the reason for my invitation. Although now that you are here, I am worried that you will think me impertinent, and it is not meant in that way —’

  ‘Mr Poskitt, please … do tell me why you wanted to see me.’

  He sighed. ‘Or even, perhaps, downright rude…’

  ‘Mr Poskitt, I promise I won’t, if you will tell me the reason for your summons!’

  ‘Sir William Chambers’ parlourmaid has given notice,’ said Mr Poskitt, his eyes on me.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The Secretary for War needs a new parlourmaid,’ Mr Poskitt said patiently, ‘and you are the only person I can think of.’

  ‘What?’ I stared at him.

  ‘I know it is rather a tall order,’ said Mr Poskitt. ‘For security reasons, senior Whitehall staff use an approved agency for their domestics, and Lady Chambers is coming up to town tomorrow to interview a selection of parlourmaids. So we don’t have long.’

  My head was in a whirl. ‘Mr Poskitt, let me get this straight. You are asking me to go undercover as a maid in a Cabinet minister’s house?’

  ‘That’s exactly it,’ beamed Mr Poskitt. ‘We have to find the source of this leak somehow, and there will be no better opportunity to get a spy — for want of a better word — into Sir William’s private residence.’

  ‘How long would this — engagement — last?’

  Mr Poskitt sucked in air as he considered. ‘It’s hard to say, Mrs Hudson. I mean, it could be weeks, or…’ He caught sight of my expression. ‘Of course you could give notice at any time you wished. And the remuneration would be handsome.’

  ‘How handsome?’ I asked, suspiciously.

  ‘Well, there is no-one else I could possibly ask, so… A pound a day, with bonuses for any information you manage to secure?’

  I was brought up short. Seven pounds a week was a ridiculously high wage; more money than I had ever dreamed of making. ‘If you had mentioned that part first, Mr Poskitt…’ I smiled. ‘I am inclined to accept your offer.’ I imagined Sherlock’s face when I told him. He would help me
get ready, pack my box, kiss me goodbye…

  ‘Excellent! There is just one more thing. No-one must know where you are or what you are doing, save me.’ Mr Poskitt’s face was suddenly grave. ‘If young Mr Holmes knows, he will almost certainly try to communicate with you; and as Mr Holmes’s brother, that is very dangerous indeed.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said; but my head was spinning.

  ‘So you will do it?’ The relief on Mr Poskitt’s face was tremendous.

  ‘I — I need time to think,’ I stammered. Mr Poskitt sat composedly on his box.

  My emotions were fighting each other.

  I will have my own undercover assignment … but what about Sherlock?

  Sherlock is busy, and happy, and engaged in a case. A case where my skills are incidental.

  I thought of the times when the Inspector had patronised me; when I had been pulled from my job at the store to be Sherlock’s assistant; when I had had to argue with Mr Turner for my eight shillings a week…

  Dr Watson will look after him while I am away. As much as anyone can.

  ‘It will be a hard, menial job,’ said Mr Poskitt, warningly, ‘and of course there is no promise of success. There may be nothing to find.’

  But it will be a case, and a job, of my own. No-one will be able to take it from me.

  ‘I shall do it,’ I said.

  ‘Wonderful.’ Mr Poskitt gripped my hand in both of his. ‘You will need to be at the Regent Hotel in Mayfair by noon tomorrow, dressed appropriately. Miss Dainton, my contact at the agency, tells me that Lady Chambers prefers plainly-dressed maids. All Miss Dainton will know about you is that I have my own reasons for recommending you for the post.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you have agreed.’

  ‘I may not be chosen,’ I reminded him gently.

  ‘Miss Dainton will make sure that you are,’ said Mr Poskitt. ‘Sir William takes The Times. Watch the personals column; any messages from Mercury will be for you. If you have anything for me, put it in a letter to this address, and sign it Mercury.’ He scribbled in a leaf in his pocket-notebook, tore it out, and handed it to me. Mr T.L. Jones, c/o Westminster Post Office, to be left till called for, I read.