The House at Baker Street

by Michelle Birkby

  How many had he killed? Some of those secrets he had taken from maidservants and prostitutes and other women not quite as important as his quarry. He hadn’t played at being their solicitor, he had been their tormentor. They had seen his true colours when he threatened and used and abused them. Even the ones that had started out as allies had become his victims. He couldn’t rely on them to keep silent. They must have died – we knew some had. I remembered when we were researching, way back in the beginning, I had spotted some incidents that now, given what I knew, would fit. The occasional report in newspapers of the death of an unimportant girl – often blamed on a male follower, someone of her own class. But the reports had become that bit more disturbing, the murders that bit more heinous, the wounds that bit more horrific, until it culminated in the ripping apart of the Whitechapel Lady. He would not stop there. As in the blackmail, as in his games, he had refined and perfected his technique of murder, and he would not stop. Like Jack the Ripper, his crimes would become more and more gruesome and horrific.

  Of course, Jack had stopped. But I had my own theories about that, and they were not along the lines of sudden remorse or satiation.

  I sighed. It was late and I was tired and my thoughts were becoming gloomy. It was time to stop. Mary could look at this in the morning with fresh eyes. I had no doubt she would see something I had missed. I blew out the candles. As soon as Billy returned, I would go to bed.

  As I had that thought, Billy hurtled through the front door and down the stairs into the kitchen. He was out of breath.

  ‘Not there . . .’ he panted. ‘She got a note . . .’ He held a scrap of paper out to me. It was a folded note, and the writing on it was startlingly like Mr Holmes’. It read ‘Come at once. Watson hurt’.

  ‘There was a carriage,’ Billy said. ‘The housemaid said it took her away.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I ordered, suddenly wide awake. ‘Dr Watson is fine; Mr Holmes did not send this note.’ I studied the note intently. The handwriting was unfamiliar, the paper not mine. It was a moment before I realised what had happened. ‘It was a trap, he’s taken her.’

  ‘Taken Mrs Watson?’ Billy cried. ‘Why? What do they want?’

  For a moment I nearly said ‘me’, and then I thought – no. I looked up, to the rooms above me, where all was silent now. Kidnapping Mary was far more likely to draw out Dr Watson, and hence Mr Holmes. This man was tired of waiting for Mr Holmes to put together the clues and had decided instead to lure him. He would be expecting John and Mr Holmes. He might even be watching them. As for me – I was just the housekeeper. I was unimportant. I was just another pawn.

  ‘Mr Holmes gets that look,’ Billy said softly, staring at me. ‘That sort of frozen look you’ve got now. Only when he’s really angry. Dr Watson says it frightens him. Mr Holmes will stop at nothing when he looks like that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, placing the letter on the table. ‘I am very angry.’

  ‘Should I find Dr Watson?’ Billy asked, standing up.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I won’t place them in danger, too. Besides, he is out at Scotland Yard and likely to be out all night.’

  Billy sat down again. He did not argue.

  I was afraid, and upset, and confused, and tired, but most of all I was angry. A white-hot anger that burnt bright enough to scorch. I was angry that those I loved were being used by this man, I was angry at being overlooked, I was angry that Mary had fallen for such an obvious trick, I was angry at myself for giving up on my life but most of all I was angry at him for every man and woman ruined, every life ended, every happiness destroyed, every drop of blood spilled, every woman who felt lost and alone and afraid.

  I looked down at the map, and the papers. The clue was here somewhere, and I would find Mary. I would change the rules and cheat and lie and win.

  ‘I will play the game.’

  ‘What first?’ Billy asked. I looked down at the map. All I really had was a mass of red crosses scattered randomly across London, and a game I knew only half the rules to. And the fear, of course. The fear that Mary was trapped, and helpless and afraid, and that I, in my stupid pride, was condemning her to death. That I could not do this alone, that I had no way of doing this, that I did not know what to do next, and it would be Mary who suffered.

  ‘He charged them for everything,’ Billy said, seemingly from nowhere. ‘Not just work, but papers, pens, meals, cabs, everything.’ I turned to look. He was reading a bill that he had picked up from Irene’s papers.

  ‘Solicitors do,’ I told him, taking the bill. ‘Especially this one. He’d charge you for the air you breathed if he thought . . .’ My voice trailed away as I read the bill. Amongst sundry other items – carefully catalogued – was one particular charge.

  Cab to Briony Lodge, Irene’s house. 9 ¾ miles.

  I picked up another bill. There it was, below the expenditure on seals.

  Cab to Claridge’s. 11 ½ miles.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. I caught my breath so sharply I swayed a little and had to clutch the side of the table.

  ‘He left us clues!’ I said to Billy, who looked alarmed by my sudden breathlessness. ‘He had to lay a trail, so he left us clues!’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘The cab rides – he has given us the length of the journey from his home to these locations,’ I explained, holding out the bill. ‘Find me all the bills you can. I know we only have Irene’s and Sir George’s but hopefully that will be enough.’

  ‘What if the cab rides weren’t from his home?’ Billy asked, as he riffled through Sir George’s papers. ‘What if they came from his office?’

  I hunted through the kitchen drawer where Billy kept his school equipment for his lessons.

  ‘No,’ I said emphatically. ‘For a start, those offices either don’t exist, or are nothing more than letter-drops. I doubt he goes anywhere near them. For another,’ I continued, as I found the ruler and the compass with a pencil that I was searching for, ‘he wants us to find him. Well, he wants someone to be clever enough to find him, I should say.’

  I took the sheaf of bills from Billy’s hand, and he went round the table, replacing the burnt-out candles with bright new ones.

  ‘Billy, read out the first distance again.’

  ‘Briony Lodge, 9 ¾ miles.’

  I measured out 9 ¾ miles against the guide at the edge of the map. Then I stretched the compasses out to the correct distance. I put the point of the compass roughly where Briony Lodge was, and drew a circle.

  It was crude, but it was a start. The circle encompassed a wide area of West London, and some of the centre too. There, within that circle, somewhere near the edge, we would find our solicitor.

  ‘But it could be anywhere inside that circle,’ Billy pointed out. ‘London’s streets all twist round each other. Five miles could be two roads over.’

  ‘Read the bill,’ I countered. ‘At the top, there’s a pre-printed message.’

  ‘“All meals charged for are undertaken on client’s business”,’ Billy read. ‘A justification for the charges?’

  ‘Read on.’

  ‘“All charges for sundries such as pen, ink, paper etc. are undertaken at standard rate commensurate with hours worked on client’s business. All distances are measured ‘as the crow flies’.” So five miles really would be . . . ?’

  ‘Five miles from his destination,’ I confirmed.

  ‘That doesn’t seem right. Isn’t it a bit obvious?’ Billy asked dubiously.

  ‘Billy, this is a trap,’ I said gently. ‘From the moment Laura Shirley came here, to the death of the Whitechapel Lady, even the kidnapping of Mary, this has all been a trap. And what use is a trap if you do not lay a trail for your quarry?’

  ‘I see,’ Billy said, peering at the bill. ‘Difficult, but not impossible.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘But . . . would Mr Holmes have done it like this?’ he objected. He picked up one of Sir George Burnwell’s bills. It was printed with the same inst
ructions at the top. ‘Look, these are obviously printed at the same place. They even have the same irregularity at the corners. Mr Holmes . . .’

  ‘Not if Mary’s life were in danger. He would have followed the trail, as I am doing,’ I asserted firmly, though not entirely sure I was right. Mary would have tracked down the irregularity in the printing too, but there was no time, none at all! I glanced up at the clock.

  By ten o’clock, I had my solution. I knew what he was doing. I would find out where he was. I knew how to find him. And Mary, whilst she might be afraid, would never be helpless. She was clever and devious. We would win. We had to win.

  ‘Next measurement.’

  The bills were full of cab rides. Sir George had met his solicitor all over London – at his home, theatres, hotels, coffee shops. Irene had requested his representative pick up papers from all sorts of people, again all over London. We had a good number of distances to work from.

  It was odd though. The thought struck me halfway through. Why now? Why, after all these years, try to entrap Mr Holmes? Who had suggested it? Was there, perhaps, someone standing further in the shadows, guiding him, pointing him in the right direction, suggesting clues to entice and lead?

  I shook the thought away as soon as I had it. I had no time for speculation, not now. But I would return to that thought in the years to come.

  The clock was striking half past twelve as I drew the last circle. Billy had fallen asleep, his head pillowed on his hands. The rooms upstairs were silent. It felt as if I were the only one awake, not just in this house, but in the whole world.

  I looked at my map of London, covered in crosses and circles. The circles all intersected at one place, on the edge of Richmond.

  A completely blank field.

  I sat there, staring at the spot on the map. Had my calculations been wrong? Was my clever idea not so clever after all? What was I failing to see that was there before me?

  I held my head in my hands, grasping my hair, trying to force myself to think. I needed one more deduction, one more leap from clues to knowledge, but it would not come. According to the map, according to my theory, Mary had been taken to an empty field. Was that possible, even probable?

  That was when a candle flickered in the draught and I caught sight of the date of the map. It was two years old. And as I noticed that, I remembered something I had seen in today’s newspaper. I reached over to where I had placed it on the chair beside me. Halfway through the paper was the advertisement. Newly built homes in Richmond, suitable for professional men and their families. Some already built and available for viewing, the rest to be built by the end of the year.

  Not an empty field then. A field of half-built houses.

  I left a note for Billy to say that if I wasn’t back by seven in the morning, he was to let Dr Watson know what had happened, and to be sure to say it was all my fault. I had thought of asking for help: perhaps this would all be beyond me. But Mr Holmes was drugged, and who knew when Dr Watson would return? There was no time to wait. I reached for my hat – and stopped. No hat. No sign of respectability this time. I merely fastened my coat. As I reached the front door, it occurred to me that the solicitor could have someone watching the house, so as to be forewarned when Mr Holmes finally came after him. I went through the back door, to the exit from the yard Mr Holmes thought I did not know about. I slipped through the faulty fencing into next door’s yard, and then through the hole in their wall that they had never had fixed. I squeezed through the narrow gap, almost too tight for me, down the side of the houses, into the next street. I walked along there until I could cross to the Marylebone Road, where I was sure to get a cab.

  That escape route should have been convoluted enough to throw off any pursuer. It certainly left me breathless and grubby, and the cab driver almost didn’t stop for me. You can get almost anything in London, at any hour, and there is always a cab waiting to take you where you need to go. I told the driver the address, and though he objected to the distance, I promised him a large tip. I settled down as the cab rattled through the night to Mary – and to the solicitor.

  Perhaps you think I should have woken Mr Holmes or fetched John, or brought Billy. Perhaps I should have called on Irene. Perhaps I should have gone to Scotland Yard and laid it all before Inspector Lestrade or Inspector Gregson. Perhaps I should have waited, and sent someone else, anyone else.

  Or perhaps you understand why I did not do any of those things, why I had to do this alone. And if you do, perhaps you understand more than I did, for I did not really understand at all. I only knew that I must play this final act alone, centre stage.

  One way or another, by the time the sun rose, this would all be over.

  It was a long drive to Richmond, long and silent and dark. I finally had time to reflect. Mary: she must have known what was happening when she got into that carriage; she must have done this deliberately. She had walked right into danger. She could get hurt. She could die! How could she go?

  How could she not. She was Mary, after all. I remembered that first sight of her, so steadfast, so sure of herself. I remembered her excitement at hearing of Mr Holmes’ cases. I remembered her longing for something, anything to happen. And with all that came other memories. Her comforting hand over mine. Her laughter at her terrible scones. Her request to be my friend. The instinctive way she turned to me and became my partner in this game. She let herself be taken into the trap because she knew I’d come after her. She was sure I’d follow the last clues and track her down. She had absolute faith in me. She had more faith than I had. She was my friend. She was my only, most precious friend. I couldn’t lose her. I would not lose her. I would not. I called up to the driver to go faster.

  I had anticipated using the lengthy cab ride from Baker Street to Richmond to plan my attack – what I should say, or do, how I could rescue Mary, how to tie together the loose ends that still dangled before me. And yet, all through the night ride, my mind remained blank. My hands knotted together where they rested on my lap, and I stared unseeing out of the window as crowded streets gave way to gentler peaceful roads, giving way to the blank darkness of countryside, and still my mind would not think.

  I seemed to be separated from the world outside the cab. The noise of the wheels on the road, the feel of the cracked leather seat, the faint, hot smell of the tiny cramped space and the soft sound of my own breathing was all I was aware of. I could feel only the pinch of my clothes on my flesh, the scratch of a badly placed stitch on my gloves, the knot where the stocking had turned in my shoe. Nothing else in the world existed.

  The journey seemed to last for hours. The roads were empty, the horse fast, but the night seemed to stretch on and on in front of me and I found I could not imagine a dawn.

  I did not have any plan at all when the driver pulled up in Richmond, and called down to me that we had arrived.

  I climbed out and held up my fare.

  ‘Please wait,’ I said.

  ‘Here?’ he asked. ‘In the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Well, you can go back to the centre of London by yourself, or wait here for a short while and return with a paying fare,’ I said, more sharply than I intended. Of course, the paying fare might not be me. There was a chance instead that the solicitor would come running out, and flee in this cab, but it was a chance I had to take.

  The cab driver nodded his assent and I looked around. It wasn’t quite the middle of nowhere, but close enough. The street itself was only half-built and gas had not yet been laid on for the lighting. Foundations had been dug on both sides of the street, and the houses were in various states of completion. Some had walls and roofs and doors, but some were just great piles of bricks looming out of the darkness, shapeless and formless. The beginnings of the houses looked like ancient monolithic ruins in the dim light. This place felt heavy and old and evil, less a place of modern innovation, more a place of ancient sacrifice. The air was cold and still. No one was here. Nothing stirred. The
building had frightened the wildlife away. The entire street felt like it was waiting, unfinished, needing something else to complete it, and I remembered old stories of blood sacrifices in ancient homes.

  But then I ordered myself not to be such a silly old woman.

  I gave a shake, and berated myself for a lack of logic and cool thinking. I looked around. Most of the street was dark, but there was a little light coming from one of the very few completed houses. I could see a low, two-storey villa, surrounded by a high hedge, and a path to one side, presumably leading to the back garden. This must at one time have been the show house for this development, and had stood here, complete, as the others were built around it. From there a pale milky light bled through into the night. It appeared to be the only inhabited building on the street. This, then, was my destination.

  I headed towards the path at the side. I felt calm now. Not peaceful, but with this odd stillness instead. It reminded me of what Hector had once said about how a soldier becomes just before a battle. It is almost relief that the waiting is over, and the worst has now come, and now all he has to do is face it head on, and get it over and done with.

  I was right; the path led to the wooden panelled fence of the back garden. The gate was not locked. I slipped through onto the lawn. I remained in the shadows as I took in what I could see.

  Before me were large French windows, leading to a room that seemed to be some kind of study. One window was open onto the garden. There was a desk up against the wall, a table, book-lined shelves against three walls, all lit by two oil lamps, one on the desk, one on the table by the window. A green leather chair was up against the desk, and, incongruously, a rough kitchen chair right in the middle of the green carpet. And on that chair, bound to it by rough ropes, was Mary.

  She was half facing me, but slumped, and her eyes were closed. Her wrists were bound to the straight arms of the chair, another rope passed around her middle. and her feet were also tied to the chair’s legs. There was blood on her dress, a bruise on her cheek and a cut on her forehead. Her dress was torn and her hair hung loose and bedraggled.