Early the next morning Mr. Holmes requested that I come with him on another excursion to Kensington. London was quiet as we made our way to a drab stone building across from Hyde Park. Though the city was just waking, the building was filled with sounds of a large and busy workshop.
“Can I help you?” asked a young man dressed in a dirty apron and covered in dust from head to foot. He wiped his hands on a rag and smiled.
“Yes,” my employer answered, “I would like to have a bust made.”
“Very well. Of whom?”
“This lady here,” Mr. Holmes gestured to me, and I felt my face flush. I glanced at him, a small smile playing on his lips.
The artisan scrutinized my face slowly, asking me repeatedly to turn my head, saying, “We will need to make a drawing for the mold. The bust should be finished in a week, approximately.”
“Very good. May I have a look around while I wait?” With a nod, the detective wandered calmly about the warehouse while I sat down for the drawing.
As we left the shop, I asked, “What would you need a bust of me for, sir? You see me every day.”
Mr. Holmes grinned. “When we began the murder case, you said you wished to aid me. Is that not still true?”
“Yes, of course I will.”
“You have done so, and admirably too. I have found out many things about our murderer with our excursion today.”
“But how?” I asked, confused. “We didn’t have time to ask any questions.”
“I did, but there was really only one question that needed answering,” Mr. Holmes replied, “who had committed the murders—not in appearance, but in name.”
“Who is he, then?”
“His name is Howard Whitehall, a sculptor recently discharged for theft, and a man disliked for his deeply rooted envy of others.”
“I still don’t understand. How did you know he was a sculptor?”
“Plaster dust covered the second victim’s body, as well as cuts very similar to the first victim. I knew it was our killer the moment I saw her.”
I paused, still full of questions. “You said the first victim was his wife. Why would any self-respecting woman marry such a man?”
“Why they married is not as difficult a question to answer as it may seem; things that are now so clear were not so clear in the past. When times were good, home life could be pleasant enough…but when times were hard, the line between good and evil blurred for our criminal. I imagine his wife only discovered this as time went on, not in the beginning.”
“But the second victim is not even related to Mr. Whitehall. Why would he kill an innocent bystander?”
“I’m not sure.” Mr. Holmes bowed his head, pondering.
“The note may help us.” I said, attempting to follow in the footsteps of the man beside me, “But it’s in a language I don’t recognize.”
“I have killed another one for you,” he murmured, interlocking his fingers, “Who did you kill for, Howard Whitehall?”
When we arrived home, a note for Mr. Holmes lay on the table. A single address and time were written there; once he had read it, he turned on me immediately.
“You are not to come with me tonight. Is that understood?”
“Mr. Holmes—”
“I will not discuss it further.” So saying, he tore up the note and threw it away, retiring swiftly to his rooms.
I gathered up the pieces, but it was useless. I turned sadly to Dr. Watson, who had watched the entire interaction from a chair by the fire. “What shall I do, sir? If he goes alone he will most certainly be overcome.”
“He may yet have a chance,” Dr. Watson replied, stretching out his hand to me. I took it, expecting a show of comfort. Instead, a slip of paper fell softly into my hand.
The doctor stared at me intently. “Take care of him, will you? And try to stay out of trouble.”
As night descended over the bustling city, I felt guilty for so blatantly disobeying Mr. Holmes, knowing that he might never forgive me. It was nearly dark when I heard him depart. I prepared myself to go when I heard Dr. Watson call me.
“Take this with you,” he said as he handed me his revolver. “My hope is you will not have to use it, but if you do, you will not be walking into danger unarmed.”
I thanked him and he embraced me. “Be careful; we don’t want to lose you.”
I nodded and steeled myself for the journey, stepping through the back pantry door. Once on the street, I felt my heart race as my adventure began. The streets were still busy with revelers and shopkeepers preparing to close, but I could not see Mr. Holmes anywhere. I followed the lights down the crowded streets, finally hailing a chaise and hoping I was not too late.
I stopped the cab a few streets away from my destination. As the cab drove away, I saw a tall figure outlined in the darkness walking quickly toward the business district. Recognizing Mr. Holmes, I hid in the shadows and followed him until he suddenly disappeared. Disconcerted, I made my way to the warehouse we had been to earlier in the day. My nerves tightened with every sound, my hands trembling as I opened the workshop door.
The moon had risen, the silver light spilling through the small row of windows, revealing worktables and discarded tools from a hard day’s work. The overwhelming silence left me agitated, and I pulled out the revolver. I held it out in front of me, walking slowly forward into the light. I searched for any sign of movement until I was grabbed from behind, a long hand placed over my mouth. I fought to break away until I was roughly turned around, thrust beneath Mr. Holmes’s penetrating gaze.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered angrily, “I tore up the note to make sure you could not follow.”
“Dr. Watson, sir,” I replied, “He copied the contents of the note before you tore it up.”
His eyes bulged, and as I felt his anger ebbing, I ventured, “Do not blame him, sir. We were only thinking of your safety.”
He looked out into the vast, silent space then turned toward me, his voice strained. “Promise me—”
Suddenly a door in the far corner opened; the sound of several feet stepping inside came to our ears. As we retreated further into the darkness, Mr. Holmes whispered urgently, “You must get out of here, now!”
“I can’t leave you here!”
“It’s too dangerous! You must go while you still have a chance.”
“And allow you to—”
A gun fired, six men stepping into the moonlight with weapons at the ready. Mr. Holmes walked slowly out of our hiding place, saying, “Hello, gentlemen. I was expecting only one man for this appointment.”
“So sorry to disappoint you,” answered a big bulky man with a deep voice. The others laughed menacingly.
“Did Howard Whitehall send you?”
“Does it matter?” replied a wiry man with yellowing teeth.
“All right, then,” the detective answered with a shrug of his shoulders. Then the fight began.
Twisting and bending to meet foes on all fronts, Mr. Holmes fought with unusual dexterity, missing many blows. I soon joined the fray after I saw him about to be overrun, firing two shots from my hiding place. One man fell instantly, never again to breathe on this earth.
I rushed out to meet the foe, my nerves providing me with a previously unknown strength. I struck another man with the butt of the gun, but he overcame me and wrenched the gun from my hand. As my fists flew he roared, but I felt his hold slacken. I grabbed up a chisel and attempted to strike, but there was no need; he fell dead, a bullet to the back. I saw Mr. Holmes lower a smoking gun before he was set upon once more.
The wiry man with yellow teeth, enraged at the loss of his comrade, attacked. He whipped his blade frantically, nearly grazing me several times. At last I knocked the knife out of his hand, but he pushed against me with all his might. We fell together to the floor; in a tangle of arms and legs my foot met with the bridge of his nose. He yelled, and seizing my opportunity, I struck him in the face with a mallet. I stood up quickly, ready t
o strike again when I was seized by the hair and dragged into the darkness. I felt the point of a blade against my throat and cried out. In one fluid motion Mr. Holmes had a revolver pointed at my assailant.
“Put the gun down, or I might begin to demonstrate my skills on your lovely companion, Mr. Holmes.” The man vented threateningly, stepping further into the light. He turned me to face the gun muzzle, grinning wickedly. My master’s eyes widened with recognition.
“Yes, I’ve been expecting you. I recognized you the first time you came for me; I even killed the second young woman so that you might not forget what I had done. But I did not know you kept such good company.”
“Why are you doing this, Whitehall?”
“Vengeance!” he yelled, then became instantly calm. “Women are so fickle, are they not?” The villain bent into my hair and inhaled deeply. I struggled to escape from his firm grasp.
“You are a feisty one, my dear,” He laughed long and hard, then frowned. “But Mr. Holmes, you have not been fortunate enough to see me at work. Perhaps we’ll start with the fingers…she does not need all of them.”
He sliced my hand with his blade and I gasped. Mr. Holmes still held the gun high, his face livid with anger.
“Or perhaps you would prefer that I use my artistic license upon her face?” Silence followed. I felt the knife resting against my cheek and closed my eyes. “What a pity. I might have said you were a beautiful woman.” The blade turned, brushing against my skin.
“Don’t!” I heard a shout and opened my eyes. Never taking his gaze from mine, Mr. Holmes bent slowly and placed the gun carefully on the floor.
“No!” I yelled, and Whitehall’s hold on me tightened.
“Take even one step to pursue me and she dies, here and now.” My captor moved the blade to my throat once more as the detective rose to his full height.
“Shedding more innocent blood will only hang you faster,” he answered, “but I will not pursue you.”
Dragging me with him, the felon made his way slowly to the door. “Adieu, my good lady,” he whispered, “I had hoped we might meet again.”
“You will never see me again,” I replied, “unless I end up in hell.” I felt a searing pain in my cheek as Whitehall thrust me from him before running out the door.
Soon Mr. Holmes was kneeling before me, examining my wounds. I grasped his arm tightly. “You must go, now, before he does this to another.”
“You are more important.” His brow furrowed as he gently lifted my chin. “I should never have let this happen.”
“It will not continue if you pursue him,” I urged.
“I cannot,” Mr. Holmes responded sadly.
“Why? You are the best detective England has to offer, and Howard Whitehall will only cause more suffering if he is not apprehended.”
“The consequences would be too great.” He sighed, and grasping my good hand pulled me from the floor. He then began to wrap my injured hand in a handkerchief, but I pulled away.
“Sir, what can you mean by this sudden change of heart?”
He looked at me steadily for a long moment before replying. “My heart has, for once, won the war over my head.” He stretched out his palm for my hand. I gave it to him and he finished with the handkerchief before we left the warehouse.
When we had once again returned to Baker Street, I could see that Dr. Watson was almost fully recovered; I smiled at this and my wound smarted.
“What happened, Holmes?” Dr. Watson asked, lines of concern etched in his forehead.
“What were you thinking, letting her…helping her follow me into danger like that?”
Dr. Watson paused. “Would you have survived without her?”
Mr. Holmes bowed his head, but said nothing. An awkward moment passed before he finally answered, “Howard Whitehall has eluded me once more,” and went to his quarters.
The doctor’s eyes widened; he then turned to me and tried to smile. “I shall take care of you myself, Martha. With time, your wounds will be hardly noticeable.”
“It is not for me that I fear, sir,” I replied. “It’s Mr. Holmes. I fear that he is ill.”
Dr. Watson smiled slightly and shook his head. “He will be all right. His illness is of a different nature than I can cure.”
A great pall settled over the house, a darkness reigning over Mr. Holmes’s brow. It lightened somewhat when Dr. Watson was fully recovered, but even then he was haunted with dire thoughts. After two weeks of this behavior, I would surrender to it no longer; I inquired if he might take a stroll with me. He reluctantly agreed, and we set off.
As the autumn sunlight fell gently on the streets of London, a barrier still hung between us. At last I asked, “Are you well, sir?”
“Well enough.”
“Have I done anything which might offend you?”
“Offend me?” he answered with some surprise, “Where did you ever get an idea like that?”
“Ever since Howard Whitehall escaped, you have not been yourself. You’ve hardly eaten anything, and I know you haven’t slept.”
“Do not worry yourself so much.” Mr. Holmes retorted, and we continued walking in a disquieting silence.
Finally I whispered, “My only wish is to help you, sir.”
“Help me?” he answered, grasping me by the shoulders. He heaved a deep sigh and directed me to a bench nearby. He then continued,
“The last time you tried to help me, Martha, you were nearly murdered before my eyes.” His eyes traveled immediately to my scars.
“Mr. Holmes,” I replied carefully, “Dr. Watson has mended these expertly, and with time they will fade.”
“But I shall always remember them,” he said, taking my scarred hand as he did so. “I should have gone alone.”
My breath locked within me, and some time passed before either of us spoke. I broke the thin barrier that lay between us with a query. “But what of us?”
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Watson and myself. If you had gone alone, and never returned to Baker Street, what would we have done then? You are not as friendless as you think, sir. Without you Baker Street would be an empty shell, and we would be left with an unmendable void in our lives.”
“I seriously doubt that,” he responded with an indifference that made me turn on him.
“Can you so doubt our faith in you?” Tears were coming to my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I lifted my free hand to wipe them away. “You have done so much for me, but can I not do the same for you? Do not think yourself so alone.” I felt my hand release and I thought Mr. Holmes had gone away. Instead, he took my hand gently from my face and smiled, a look quickly replaced with concern.
“Howard Whitehall escaped because I did not wish you any further harm. There is no telling what a man such as he might do.”
“But he is still at large—”
“I could not bear to watch you suffer more!” Mr. Holmes said suddenly, then he paused. “I beg you, do not ask me to witness such a spectacle again.”
We sat quietly for a time until at last I said, “You know that I would do all within my power to spare you from any suffering. But know now that I will also do whatever I can to aid you in any possible way, even if it means forfeiting my life.”
“Pray it will not come to that,” Mr. Holmes said with conviction.
“It most likely will not,” I absently placed my hand on his, “but I want you to know from this moment on.”
“Very well.” We stood and he slipped his arm through mine, saying, “Do you fancy a stroll home, Mrs. Hudson?”
I nodded, and we wandered home as twilight settled in on a cool autumn evening.
Angus Wants a Peanut
By Amber Rochelle Gillet
Following an adventure with Paula and Mitexi, who have breathed fresh perspective and new rules into the stale world of being paid to follow others by starting their unique PMS Private Investigators business, will only leave you wanting more! There is nothing routi
ne about their approach or their lives, so if predicaments like having to provide proof via naked pictures of your own cheating uncle or dating a circus clown to obtain air tight clues and bring home your client’s kidnapped 3-legged chocolate Lab tweak your curiosity, then these are your girls.
“What’s on the agenda?” I directed the question at Mitexi, who was my very best lifelong friend and current business partner; even though the majority of my attention was focused on a fascinating, yet slightly disturbing article about phobias that occupied pages 25–31 in the newest edition of Bet You Never Knew.
Unfortunately, she was not a fan of anyone who addressed her while multitasking, unless it was unavoidable, and I was coming up short on justification. But instead of slapping the article away, she calmly responded in a tone which made me foolishly believe she was being genuine; because next time I complained about being ignored she’d have some serious ammunition to shut me right up.
“First we are heading south on Route 902 and making a pit stop at Magma’s Farm; seems a dozen or so prized blue ribbon pigs have gone missing and the annual country fair is only a month away. Farmer Sullivan promised that if we bring them all back in good health, he’d give us a year’s worth of bacon and sausage on top of the $50,000 fee he has agreed to.” She paused, waiting on a response that never came. “From there, I’ll be leaving my wonderful lawyer husband Phillip and setting up house with the beautiful woman I met at Sparaco’s Italian Eatery last week when I picked up our lunch. Now that I’ve been married to a man and had a child with him, it’s become obvious that life in suburbia really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve decided to make a change and I can’t think of a better way to start fresh. You understand where I’m coming from, don’t you? Besides, I really think you’ll like her, she’s quite lovely and exudes a hint of hotness that screams ‘dirty girl’ in the politest way possible.”
Her latter comment about an unwarranted change in lifestyle did momentarily distract me, but I was so engrossed in the reading material that my desire to respond quickly faded away when I flipped to page 30 and became a literary neurotic hypochondriac whose big imagination bubbled over with fear at each case and symptom I continued to take in.
The Untreed Detectives Page 2