To Shyama. For all the book talks.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
AN UNEXPECTED WEAKNESS
THE VIEW FROM MY BED
LISTENING, WATCHING AND LEARNING
THE OTHER PATIENTS
A LITTLE BIT OF SCANDAL
MARY’S CASE
NIGHT TERRORS
A CASE FOR MRS HUDSON
SECRETS AND LIES
SEEING, NOT OBSERVING
WONDERFUL STORIES
DEATH IN THE NIGHT
MRS HUDSON’S FEAR
THE ART OF TEA-MAKING
AND SO TO WORK
THE HONOURABLE MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT
READING BETWEEN THE LINES
THE TALES OF THE IRREGULARS
THE WOMAN WHO WATCHES
AT THE PARK
NOT A BOY ANY MORE
HALF-SICK OF SHADOWS
IN THE GRAVEYARD
THE HOME OF SARAH MALONE
THE LAIR
A MOMENT’S REST
BILLY’S REPORT
INSPECTOR LESTRADE’S MYSTERY
A LITTLE BIT OF GOSSIP
AMONGST THE BACK STREETS
THE TRUTH ABOUT MIRANDA LOGAN
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
DARK AS INK
THE BOYS ON THE ISLAND
A PEACEFUL DEATH
THE WRONG PATH
THE PHOTOGRAPH
A HOUSE OF SECRETS
BACK TO WHITECHAPEL
THE DEATH BED
SEEING IT ALL FROM A DIFFERENT ANGLE
AN OLD STORY
THE PALE BOY
A MOTHER’S GLORY
A DAUGHTER’S DUTY
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THE HOUSE AT BAKER STREET
FAREWELLS AND GREETINGS
PROLOGUE
I am lying so still. My body is a leaden weight that I cannot move, my eyes fluttering open and closed, open and closed over and over again. I am hardly aware if I’m awake or not, dying or living. Perhaps closer to dying. I can feel death creeping up on me, waiting for that one moment of weakness.
Stupid, stupid! Don’t be so melodramatic. Don’t be a silly old woman. What would Mr Holmes think? And yet . . . I can see Him. Death, I mean. He’s there, right there, creeping between the beds, choosing one of us. He doesn’t look like his pictures. There’s no scythe, or robe. He barely exists, just a patch of shadow in the pale moonlight, but he is there.
As he passes me, I know enough, even in my drug-induced stupor, to close my eyes and feign a peaceful sleep. He passes by, and once I feel he is gone, I open them again.
I’m safe. I’ve passed whatever test he had for me. Now he is examining the others. I feel I ought to call out, warn them, wake them, but I can’t move. My limbs feel weighted down, my body feels part of the bed, my voice won’t come.
I can’t stop him. I can only watch.
The shadow crosses to another bed; another woman is breathing heavily, fast asleep. It only takes him a moment. The shadow moves on top of her, and in less than a few minutes, she is silent.
At night, in pain, drugged, I dreamed I saw Death come. In daylight, well and awake, I know I saw a murder.
But who will believe me? After all, people die in hospital all the time.
AN UNEXPECTED WEAKNESS
My name is Mrs Martha Hudson. I am landlady, housekeeper and goodness knows what else to the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes, at his home (well, my home, he is my tenant), 221b Baker Street. It is 30 October 1889, and he has only recently returned from his adventure in Dartmoor. He has been quiet, insular almost, since his return, keeping to his rooms. His friend, Dr John Watson, took his wife Mary Watson – my closest friend – away on holiday for two weeks to Edinburgh as soon as he returned from Dartmoor. Billy, the page-boy at 221b, has gone with them, to try to expand his horizons beyond London, and so I have been blessedly, wonderfully alone and silent for almost two weeks.
I need the peace.
Months earlier, Mary and I had tracked down a man who had been blackmailing women, not for money, but power. He had gone mad, and progressed to bloody murder, and we found him. And when we found him – well, I tried not to think about that. I still cannot decide if it was my fault.
When I was around other people I couldn’t push the image of that night from my mind. Someone would say something and back it would all come to me, flooding my mind with memories I didn’t want. Just an innocent phrase, even a word would trigger such disturbing recollections, and I would have to stop myself from crying out, all too aware I could give myself away. But alone I could push the thoughts away, I could hide them in the back of my mind, I could just not think about it. When I was alone, I could choose my own thoughts. No one would remind me.
To distract myself I have been baking: my favourite pastime. Today was my last chance, as the Watsons were due back. Cooking is my greatest skill, and I have just delivered my latest batch of cakes to Rebecca Fey, the owner of the grocery ten minutes down my street. I had welcomed her to the neighbourhood with a homemade cake (it pays to be on good terms with the local grocer) and she had, after tasting it, told me that many people would pay good money for a homemade cake they hadn’t had to make themselves, and asked could I supply more.
I didn’t need the money, but I do enjoy the work. Still, Rebecca had noted I was a little tired, and I was glad to be home.
I was tired, I admit. I usually don’t run 221b by myself, but the latest daily help had to be sacked after I caught her reading Mr Holmes’ notes. The women I hire to help me turn out to be working for criminals, or newspapers, or even the police! It’s very difficult to find someone trustworthy these days. Still, I was strong; I could manage until I found someone reliable.
At least, I told myself I was strong. I had not been altogether well lately, though I was not going to give in to my temporary weakness.
I let myself in through the front door of 221b, and heard Mr Holmes come out of his rooms on the first floor.
‘It’s only me,’ I called. ‘Dr Watson isn’t back yet.’
He grunted and went back in.
‘I’m sure he’ll come round as soon as the train gets in!’ I shouted after him, amused at Mr Holmes trying so hard to look as if he wasn’t waiting for his friend.
That was when I found myself grasping the stair post, waves of pain shooting through my body, horrific, tearing pain that took my breath away and made my knees buckle. I hung on, panting, waiting for it to stop. It had to stop, it always stopped. It had never been so bad before, though. Above me, I heard Mr Holmes leave his rooms. Why now? What if he saw me? I didn’t want him seeing me in this state. I just had to get down the steps to my kitchen, it would be all right, everything would be all right, as long as I could get to my kitchen.
And that was when it all went dark, and I collapsed in a heap at Mr Holmes’ feet.
It all happened so fast after that. I felt Mr Holmes gently raise me up and heard him question me. I heard the Watsons come through the door, and knew John had sent Billy to fetch a cab, but all I could focus on was the pain shooting through my stomach, and then, to my eternal embarrassment, I passed out again.
John actually carried me to the cab! And then to St Bartholomew’s Hospital, and even through to the small ward. He had doctor’s privileges there, and he had me admitted right away.
I had been ill for a little while, just pain in my stomach that came and went after meals. Indigestion, I thought, possibly some sort of stomach infection. Nothing to worry about, or make a fuss about – how I hated making a fuss! But now, here I was, in hospital, and they were talking about surgery. I was afraid, but I didn’t tell
them, and I didn’t murmur when they put me to sleep for my operation.
I woke up still hazy from the morphine and anaesthetic.
It was dark by then. I was lying in a narrow, iron-framed bed. There were two green fabric screens, one on either side of my bed, so all I could see was the bed directly opposite me, and the corners of two others on either side of it. In the very dim lamp light, I could discern another woman sleeping in the bed across from mine. I lay still, looking around me as much as I could. I was aware other people were in the room though I could not see them: I could hear breathing, and snoring, and someone shifting in bed and the pages of a book being turned. I could hear soft footsteps, and a murmur.
I didn’t like being here. I didn’t like sleeping in a room with strangers. I am uncomfortable being helpless at any time, let alone in a strange place, and I missed my warm and cosy bed. I tried to move, but my limbs felt so heavy I just lay still. I could not think straight. The whiteness of the sheets floated in the darkness. Noises that made no sense came and went. This sharp-smelling world was strange to me, and my head spun and ached. Somehow, in this odd new place, I was not surprised when I realized there was a shadow in the corner, just beyond the edge of the screens, so much darker than the rest of the room. I watched, uncaring, as the shadow crossed the foot of my bed. It was a vaguely human shape, but I was so befuddled it could have taken the form of a giant hound and I would not have cared. The shadow crossed to the bed diagonally opposite me. It leaned over the bed, and I finally drifted into a fitful sleep.
The next morning I discovered the woman in that bed had died. The shadow, I was certain, was nothing more than a bad dream, caused by drugs and darkness, all on the morning of Halloween.
That was the start of my second case.
THE VIEW FROM MY BED
I woke slowly the next morning, as the thin grey daylight flooded into the room. I could see now I was in a small side ward. The green fabric screens on either side of me had been pulled back, hanging from the frame at the top of the bed. I could see the room had white-painted walls, and high, large windows. The floor was wooden and highly polished and the heels of the nurses clicked on it as they walked up and down the ward. There was a wooden door at the far right end of the ward, and another door, open to the corridor outside, to my left, directly in front of the Sister’s desk. Within the centre of the room, dividing the two rows of beds, was a stove and another desk. It was warm in the ward, but the windows were open and I could feel a cold breeze across my face. It must have been early, as most of the patients were still asleep, hunched under brilliantly white sheets and heavy grey blankets. The woman to my left, however, was wide awake, and I could hear her restlessly clutching at her sheets and murmuring. A nurse was trying to soothe her, and I could hear what I assumed to be the other nurses, and a woman I supposed to be the Ward Sister, gathered at the top end of the ward, having a low conversation.
Beside my bed was a locker, and wooden chair, and such a welcome sight: Mary Watson, my best and perhaps only friend.
Her head was slumped in sleep, her hat fallen on the floor and her golden curls askew.
‘Mary,’ I whispered. She woke immediately, sitting bolt upright in her chair.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked. I took a moment to think whilst I assessed myself. I was unsure of where I was and what was happening, my head felt oddly empty, my body stiff and my throat sore. I was aware of an odd, tight sensation in my stomach.
‘Like I ought to be in pain, but I’m not.’
‘That’s the morphine,’ Mary reassured me, sitting down gingerly on my bed, careful not to jolt me. ‘John says you can’t have it for very long though.’
‘I’ve no wish to become addicted,’ I assured her. ‘I can take pain.’ I thought of Mr Holmes and the dark haggard days when the needle barely left his arm and his eyes were full of oblivion.
‘You won’t,’ Mary said. ‘You won’t be taking it long enough.’
‘Mary,’ I said, peering round the clean, bright room and at the women beginning to awake and the nurse casting a disapproving glance at Mary on my bed, ‘where exactly am I?’
‘Oh, right, sorry!’ she said quickly. ‘I suppose it all happened so fast. We arrived at Baker Street just as you collapsed, perfect timing. John took you to St Bartholomew’s.’
‘This doesn’t look like St Bartholomew’s,’ I said dubiously. ‘I thought it had those huge pavilion wards.’
‘You’re in one of the private side wards,’ Mary confided, ‘for special friends of the staff and supporters of St Barts. John pulled a few strings.’
‘I see.’ It didn’t feel private, sharing a room with other women and countless nurses, but I supposed it was better than the main wards which could hold over a hundred.
‘You had a stomach obstruction,’ Mary told me, standing up and restlessly straightening my sheets. ‘They operated immediately and cleared the blockage. Now you just have to heal.’
‘How long do I have to stay?’ I asked. I missed home already.
‘I’m not sure,’ Mary said, not looking at me, a sure sign she was lying. ‘John will talk to you later. I’m really not supposed to be here at this hour, I just came to bring you a few things.’
I was too tired to press her. She picked up a carpet bag and put it on the end of my bed, taking the items out and storing them in the locker to my right.
‘I’ve brought you some personal linen, and cutlery, because they don’t supply it, and towels and soap and tea and sugar and a change of clothes.’
‘Mary,’ I interrupted, but she continued.
‘I’ll visit every day, but in visiting times, of course. I had to sweet talk the Matron into letting me be here when you woke up, but the Sister in charge isn’t too happy.’
‘Mary . . .’
‘I’ll bring you books and newspapers, of course, but you need to rest now.’
‘Mary!’
She finally stopped talking and looked at me, her face flushed.
‘An obstruction?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘What kind of obstruction?’
She suddenly saw what I was trying to say.
‘Not a tumour!’ she said quickly. ‘Not that! It was a twist in the bowel, I believe, but it’s all sorted out now. You’ll be fine.’
‘I see,’ I said softly. That was all it was, an obstruction? I had imagined all kinds of horrors inside my body. Foul suppurating tumours, black decaying flesh, sapping my strength, and yet it was just an obstruction! I lay back in my bed, berating myself for being a fool.
‘You must have been in pain,’ Mary said softly. I looked up at her, standing beside my bed, clutching the carpet bag tightly. ‘John says it must have hurt. You must have lost weight. You surely knew something was wrong.’
‘I didn’t, not at first,’ I told her. The truth was, I was afraid of whatever had been happening inside me. I didn’t want to admit something was going badly wrong. I didn’t want to appear weak. ‘I thought it would just go away.’
‘Go away!’ Mary snapped. The nurse shushed her, and she lowered her voice. ‘You know this sort of thing doesn’t just go away. Even if you couldn’t or wouldn’t see John, there are hundreds of doctors in London. Thousands! You could have died, Martha!’ There were tears in her eyes, and she was shaking, her face as white as my bed sheet.
Oh, I had been so stupid. Mary’s mother had died when she was young, her father died in India, her father’s friend had died protecting her, and her husband and Mr Holmes came closer to death on a regular basis than any man should. I was supposed to be the safe one. I was supposed to be the one she could depend on to always be there.
‘You weren’t . . . punishing yourself, were you?’ she asked softly, almost in a whisper.
‘Punishment?’ I asked. She inched closer to the bed, looking round to make sure no one heard.
‘For what happened. A few months ago. You know . . .’
We had worked together, back then, s
he and I. But the ending was wholly mine.
‘Is that what you did?’ Mary insisted. ‘Did you let the pain go on and get worse because you thought you deserved it?’
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know. I hadn’t even thought about it until she mentioned it.
‘Because you don’t,’ she insisted. ‘You don’t.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to her. ‘I am truly sorry. Next time I have even the slightest illness, I will tell someone.’
‘Well,’ she said, mollified, ‘see you do.’ She bent down to kiss me. ‘Don’t worry about Sherlock and Billy,’ she said. ‘They’re coming to stay with me for a while.’
‘Is that wise?’ I asked her, smiling a little, to show that solemn, heart-rending moment was gone.
‘My cook loves John’s detective stories,’ she said, smiling back. ‘She’s giddy with joy to think Sherlock Holmes is in the house. He could burn down the kitchen and she’d still think it the most exciting thing to have ever happened to her.’
I laughed as I watched Mary leave the ward. Once she was gone, I looked around me.
Now that the curtains were drawn back, I could see the entire room. The ward had four beds on each side. I was second on the right from the entrance. Beside me, to my left, was the woman who muttered all night long. She lay on her back now, talking to herself still. She didn’t sound happy. To my right was a rather exotic woman with long straight black hair, sitting upright in bed, staring out of the window as if she, like me, longed to be elsewhere. She didn’t look ill. Beyond her was a woman in her mid-fifties, I’d guess, with fly-away hair, and a huge workbag on her bed. She was already knitting some nondescript garment in grey wool. Opposite her was a woman sitting in an upright chair by her bed. She had a large bandage on her chest, mostly hidden by her white linen nightgown. She sat and watched us all. Even from here I could see her eyes were blue, and piercing, and made me feel distinctly uncomfortable. She saw me looking, and nodded. I nodded back. To the left of her was a woman with very obviously dyed blonde hair, and a heart-shaped face with very fine bones. She looked to be in her eighties, and was smiling happily as she read a magazine. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Beside her, opposite me, was another grey old lady, with brown round eyes. When I was little, I had a rag doll given to me. The eyes were boot buttons, and were flat and dark. I didn’t like that doll, I felt it was always watching me. This woman’s eyes reminded me irresistibly of the boot button eyes, flat and dark and staring, set in a doughy face, like a cake that had sagged in the middle. She smiled incessantly, at everyone and everything. And beside her, at the top of the ward – well, it was an empty bed now. But last night I had seen a woman die in that bed.
The Women of Baker Street Page 1