‘Except his hand. His left hand. He had unclasped his hands to gesture me to sit, and then he kept tightening his left hand, over and over again. I do not think he knows he does it. It is as if any emotion he does feel is clasped in that left hand, and he keeps tightening his grip, lest it should escape.
‘“Welcome back to London. You are well, Mrs Norton?” he asked, calmly, a polite inquiry, nothing more, as I sat down at his table. If he was surprised to see me there, he concealed it very well. But then he would, wouldn’t he? God forbid Sherlock Holmes should show an emotion! He continued to stand by the window, clear daylight illuminating every plane of his face. I wonder if he is aware how handsome he is? He has a stern, unforgiving profile, his face is all angles and sharpness, but perhaps he knows that when he smiles, it is enough to set a girl’s heart beating like a drum. Yet he did not smile, and I am not a girl.
‘“I am well,” I told him. I could damned well play this politeness game too! “Though I have reason to believe someone wishes me ill.”
‘He stopped tightening his left hand then.
‘“A packet was sent to my husband, Mr Godfrey Norton.”
‘“The solicitor,” he said, his voice dripping with scorn.
‘“The solicitor,” I agreed amiably. “The packet contained many details of my former life. Details I had kept from him. Sordid details.”
‘I own, Martha, I blushed. Not at the thought of what the packet contained, but because I had kept the facts from my husband. Facts Mr Holmes knew, facts I would carelessly tell him, but facts the man whose ring I wore did not know. Mr Holmes’ expression did not change. He merely watched me.
‘“Including some details I thought only you and I knew,” I finished, sharper than I had intended.
‘His face did not flicker. “You think I sent these papers to your husband?”
‘I looked at him then, and he looked back at me, so very steadily. The silence in the room hung so thickly that the sound of the hansom cab driver calling outside seemed to ring through us.
‘“No, I don’t think it,” I said, and I believe my voice was barely above a whisper. Mr Holmes’ gaze is a fearsome thing to withstand, and yet I like the honesty of it. It is sometimes a relief to find someone before whom you cannot hide. I have played a part all my life yet all I am to Sherlock Holmes is Irene Adler.
‘“But I must eliminate all possibilities,” I added. He smiled at that, a quick, involuntary twitch of his mouth. “Given the secrets contained in these papers, you are a possible suspect. A faint one, but a possibility nonetheless.”
‘“I could assure you I am innocent, but then so would a guilty man,” he said, without a trace of anger.
‘“Quite. But now I have spoken to you I am . . . I mean . . . I do not believe you capable of such spiteful behaviour,” I said, and I had stammered! I actually stammered. I don’t know why. He merely inclined his head in thanks to me.
‘“Perhaps you would be better chasing the motive,” he said, quite as if I were a fellow detective asking for advice.
‘“I believe whoever sent this packet wishes to destroy my marriage,” I told him, “persuade my husband to abandon me and leave me alone and unprotected.”
‘“Miss Adler, you may be alone, but you are more than capable of protecting yourself.”
‘He would insist on using my maiden name!
‘“You know that; whoever sent the packet does not. Another reason I now do not believe you sent the papers.”
‘“No, I did not,” he said, standing by the window, watching me, and only me. Not a single noise in the street outside drew his attention. No, he would not send those papers. He has honour, that man. A strange, unconventional kind of honour, I admit, but honour all the same.
‘“No, you did not,” I agreed. I started to fiddle with my gloves. I always do fiddle when I’m thinking. “It seemed like a dirty blackmailer’s trick, but no one has tried to blackmail me lately. Thank you for your help.” I moved to stand, but he spoke quietly.
‘“Did it have the desired effect?”
‘I sat back down in my chair and looked at him, so clear and defined in the light from the window, so utterly unreadable.
‘“My husband,” I said, choosing my words deliberately, “read the entire packet of papers. He then asked me if I had ever been cruel, and I said not to anyone who was not rich, healthy and proud. He asked me if that portion of my life was over. I said it was. He then handed the packet over to me, and asked me if I cared for some coffee. He has not spoken about it since.”
‘“Then the blackmailer did not succeed?”
‘“No, Mr Holmes. It is true that I am here alone, but I am here investigating these letters, with both his knowledge and blessing. Business affairs keep him in the States, but if I call, he will come. He will be calm, he will be magnanimous, he will be reasonable and he will love me with all his heart and soul. He will never throw my past in my face, and he will never walk away from me unless I behave dishonourably. That is the man I married.”
‘“Yes,” he said quietly. “That is the man you married. I was there.”
‘We were both silent for a moment. I cannot tell you what we thought – he, because I do not know, myself because I only watched him. Then, all businesslike again, he spoke. “Do you wish me to track down whoever sent you this package? Is that your commission for me?”
‘“No, I can manage that for myself,” I said, rising.
‘“Alone?”
‘“I have help. The very best help.”
‘For a moment he looked puzzled. Then he glanced down at the floor, as if he would peer right through it into your kitchen and see you down here. Then he looked back up at me.
‘“Sometimes I forget I do not live here alone,” he said ruefully.
‘“Well, you shouldn’t,” I admonished him, as I headed towards the door. “Mrs Hudson and Mrs Watson are very intelligent and stimulating company.” Oh, I do enjoy teasing that man, and leaving him all bemused like that!
‘I had just opened the door when he called out, “Irene!”
‘He had such a note of urgency in his voice, I turned back, and forgot to tell him to call me Mrs Norton.
‘“You may not know what you are getting into . . . ” he started to say.
‘“I know perfectly well . . . ”
‘“You may but Mrs Hudson and Mrs Watson may not!” he snapped. Do you know, my dear, I think he cares for you? Both of you, in his odd way. But emotions are something he has no room for in his attic of a mind, so he throws them away. Or so he thinks, until one day, something will happen to shove those self-same emotions right in front of him.
‘“I will not offer my help, or intrude,” he said, more calmly. “I understand why you must do whatever you are doing alone. I applaud it. But Miss Adler,” and he came across to where I stood, still in the doorway, half in and half out of his rooms. “Sometimes, the puzzle is just a game, and it is studied and played and solved and you walk away. But sometimes, the puzzle becomes something much darker, more dangerous, deadly even. No one walks away untouched. I am here, if you need me.”
‘He meant it. He would keep us safe, all of us, if we asked. Do not be afraid to ask, will you? For as I left, he walked back into his rooms, his left hand clutched so tight the knuckles were white, and he murmured, as much to himself as to me, “Be careful. For God’s sake, all of you, be careful.”’
Irene stopped and looked at me across the kitchen table.
It was not the story I had been expecting. I expected badinage, or flirting, or even anger. I had not expected cool conversation and emotions tightly hidden in a clasping hand. I had not expected him to know we were helping Irene, or his concern for the three of us. I was touched, and a little sad, for both Mr Holmes and Irene.
Irene rose.
‘I said I would solve this myself, but you and Mary are far further along than I had reached. I have to admit, you seem to be better at this particular game than I am,’ she to
ld me seriously. ‘You have the mind to solve this, Martha. And the skills, too – you and Mary.’
She glanced round my clean, tidy kitchen, her eyes calculating and thoughtful. She was planning her next move, but I could not read it in her face.
‘I act, but you two think,’ Irene said, reaching out and slightly moving a tea cup on the table. ‘That’s what this case needs – thought. Therefore,’ she concluded, leaving the cup alone and looking at me, very directly, ‘I will leave this case with you.’
‘To us?’ I questioned. ‘Irene . . .’
‘I will draw back, until you tell me to act,’ she said to me, overriding my objection. ‘Martha, I have lost all the contacts and influence I had when I lived here before. I also know that you know more than you are telling me.’
I looked up at her. She was right, but how had she known? I had kept other women’s secrets from her. I had kept my own deductions from her. I kept the fact that for a brief second, just the briefest of moments, I had suspected her. She had so many skills, so many talents that an opera singer from New Jersey had no business having.
‘I need you more than you need me, right now,’ she said to me gently, and I felt a wave of guilt for my suspicions. ‘Mary and you are most kind, and interesting company, but I am extraneous to this investigation.’
‘No,’ I said, trying to tell her I wanted her to stay.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I made a mistake. I made an emotional judgement, and it was wrong, and very misguided.’
She did not glance up, but I did, towards Mr Holmes, silent in his rooms.
‘I was a fool,’ she admitted. ‘This case, all of it, has shaken me more than I can admit. I think I would be best served by passing the case over to you. I am too emotionally involved. I have full confidence you will give me a satisfactory answer. I shall leave this in your capable hands. However,’ she said, standing and pulling on her gloves, ‘if you require any more nefarious help, you know where to find me. I am completely at your disposal.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘I expect to hear from you very soon.’
I cleaned furiously that whole afternoon. I always found cleaning very conducive to thinking. I turned the case over and over in my mind whilst polishing banisters and blacking grates and sweeping carpets. And always, all afternoon and into the early evening, just at the edge of my hearing, I heard Mr Holmes pacing up and down.
It was dark and the gas lamps were being lit when Mary came running into 221b and straight into the kitchen. She looked white as a sheet, and stood in the doorway, panting for breath.
‘Oh Martha!’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Martha . . .’
She held out the evening paper.
The headline, big and bold across the front, read: ‘New Ripper Outrage’ and underneath that, ‘Notable Whitechapel Resident Murdered’.
I read the article carefully, and then again to be certain, and then side by side with Mary to make sure we understood.
The story was florid and sensationalist, but the facts were these.
A woman – a respectable woman – in Whitechapel had been murdered. It could not have been suicide, nor an accident. She had been stabbed several times, with a large knife. She had been slit from sternum to belly. Her entrails had been removed and scattered around the room. Her tongue had been cut out and torn to pieces. The room swam in her blood. This was not a prostitute. This was not even one of the thousands of homeless, nameless women. This woman had a home, and a name everyone knew. Not her real name, but a name given to her. The ripped woman was known to one and all as the Whitechapel Lady.
Murder. It was murder now. Mr Holmes was right: the puzzle had become something far darker. The game had changed.
Perhaps we should have called in Mr Holmes then. We did not even discuss it this time. We were under an obligation we were honour-bound to fulfil ourselves. An obligation to the dead.
I think Mary would have been incensed if I had even mentioned handing the case over to Mr Holmes. She was never quite as much in awe of him as I was. Besides, Mary liked to do things her own way. She never quite obeyed the rules all good wives should have obeyed.
Mary Watson suddenly appeared in my kitchen two days after her wedding to John. We had become friends, but our friendship was still new, and we were still discovering the character of each other.
I was standing at the counter, ostensibly kneading bread, but actually listening to the conversation coming through the open vent. Mr Holmes was telling John about his latest case. I was so caught up in listening that I stopped kneading and stood there, hands half covered in dough, head turned towards the vent, utterly unaware that Mary was standing in the doorway, watching. It was only when she gave a discreet little cough that I turned around to see her there.
I was horrified to be caught eavesdropping. My stomach dropped, I felt the colour fade from my face. She would tell; I knew she would. She would tell Mr Holmes and John that I listened to them, that I was a gossip, or worse, a lonely old woman. How could she not? I was eavesdropping on the most private of conversations! They would despise me. They would shut me out!
‘You can hear everything that goes on in Mr Holmes’ room through that vent?’ she whispered. I swallowed, and nodded.
‘Mary . . .’ I started to say, but she interrupted.
‘How wonderful! I always wondered what John and Sherlock talked of.’
I’m afraid I gaped, rather like a fish. Of all the things I expected to hear, that was not one of them.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Of course, be my guest,’ I said. She came and stood beside me, and started to pat the dough I had kneaded into a tin. She smiled at me, the loveliest, most confiding smile I had seen in a long while.
‘This is going to be fun,’ she said.
The very next morning after the newspaper reports of the Whitechapel Lady’s death, Mary arrived at my door as soon as dawn broke, tense with anger and sorrow, her dress pulled tight across her taut shoulders. We caught a cab to Whitechapel together. All the way there Mary sat bolt upright, staring ahead of us, silently willing the driver to go faster. He would not take us into Whitechapel itself, but dropped us off on the Whitechapel Road. We didn’t invite one of the Irregulars. I didn’t want them to see what we would see.
‘Which way?’ Mary asked, looking around.
‘This way,’ I told her, taking her arm and leading her down Leman Street towards the tiny square at the end.
I hardly noticed Whitechapel this time. Not the stench, not the dirt, not the poverty. The tiny streets and narrow alleys were already bustling with life, but there were no cheerful calls, no shouts, no arguments, not this time. Everyone watched each other, warily, suspiciously. It was utterly quiet in Whitechapel, almost safe, apart from the whisper ‘Ripper’. No one bothered us. They were too afraid for themselves to think about us.
We came into the square to see a man walking down the steps from the Whitechapel Lady’s home, a man who obviously did not belong in Whitechapel. He stepped fastidiously over the dirt, his boots shining brightly, his trousers pressed and brushed and achingly clean. He was of middle height, slightly plump – I doubted he had ever gone hungry in his life. He had dark hair, smoothed down with pomade on either side of a pudgy, unhealthy-looking face. His small nose was wrinkled against the smell we were now immune to and his golden pince-nez pinched the bridge of it. He would have been unnoticeable in Baker Street or Oxford Street, but in Whitechapel he stuck out a mile, as the residents would have said.
Mary picked up her skirts and ran to him.
‘Are you the police?’ she demanded.
‘No, they left. Who are you?’ he said, quailing slightly before her anger.
‘Friends of the murdered woman,’ I said calmly, as I walked towards him. He looked us up and down, saw the quality of clothes, and the way we carried ourselves, and the bloom of health on our cheeks, and knew we were not Whitechapel friends. He sniffed.
‘I see,’ he said, a touch reluctantly. ‘Well, I
am . . . was . . . her solicitor. Richard Halifax, at your service,’ he added mechanically, holding out a card to Mary. She only glared at him. I reached past her and took it. ‘I can tell you now she left all her money to the clinic, and left behind no papers, so your search is pointless.’
‘We’re not here for papers!’ Mary snapped. ‘We’re here to pay our respects.’ She pushed past him and ran up the stairs and into the room. Mr Halifax looked deeply disconcerted. He held on tight to the shaky wooden banister as he descended the last few steps.
‘My friend is very upset,’ I explained. I too was upset, but I seemed to hide it better than Mary. That was a new discovery for me, that I could remain so cool and calm whilst inside my emotions churned. ‘Have you had many people come to look for her papers?’
‘One or two, Mrs . . . ?’
‘Smith,’ I lied blithely. ‘I hope you sent them away?’
‘Quite away, with a flea in their ear to boot!’ he told me. Then he looked at me, and decided, like so many people have, to confide in me. ‘Truth to tell, there’s nothing left. Nothing to be found. She had destroyed everything that spoke of her former life, and what caused her to leave it. And the few papers that she was obliged to leave with me, I shall, by the terms of her will, burn unseen.’ He looked up the stairs at the Whitechapel Lady’s last home, and then around at the shabby cobbled, dirty square. ‘I knew her, before. A fine lady, a great lady I should say. That she should end so horribly, in this place . . .’ He shuddered, then replaced his grey bowler hat on his head. ‘For her sake, for her memory, I shall follow her instructions exactly. Nothing shall be left. Good day to you, Mrs Smith.’
I watched him exit the square onto St George Street, where a carriage stood waiting. His face was pinched and unhappy. Then, once he was gone, I heard Mary come out of the room and stand at the top of the stairs.
‘Is that vile man gone?’ she called.
‘Quite gone. He was only doing his duty, Mary.’
The House at Baker Street Page 14