All Roads Lead to Whitechapel

by Michelle Birkby

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ John said softly, and I glanced round to see him looking at me. ‘I can’t tell Holmes anything, anyway. You haven’t told me anything.’

  ‘And you haven’t deduced anything?’ Mary teased gently.

  ‘I’m not the detective, my love, merely the doctor.’ He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. Mary and Billy turned to Wiggins, preparing to move him to the other room beyond the pantry and prop him on the bed and tuck his sheets in and generally bother him under the guise of making him comfortable. But before John left, he turned to me and said gently, so that no one else heard, ‘He was doing something for you?’

  ‘Something simple,’ I promised, clasping my hands, torn with guilt. ‘I hadn’t realized it would be so dangerous.’

  ‘That’s how it always starts,’ John said grimly, ‘something simple, then there’s danger and guns and fights and people get hurt. What are you up to?’

  I bit my lip. My life was a tangle of promises. Which ones would I keep? I dared not speak.

  ‘Secrets,’ John said softly, nodding. ‘I’m surrounded by them, and if I’m honest,’ he glanced towards Mary, fussing over Wiggins, ‘I’m as guilty as all of us of keeping secrets. Only don’t get hurt, will you?’

  ‘Mary will be in no danger, I promise you,’ I said equally softly.

  He snorted. ‘I’d like to see you stop Mary once she’s set on her path, no matter how dangerous it is!’ he said, just loudly enough for Mary to hear. He dropped his voice, took my arm and pulled me into the hallway. ‘Look, if Mary got hurt, it would hurt me deeply too, and she knows that. Her safety is my responsibility, and hers too, and she is more than capable of taking care of both herself and me,’ he added, in a whisper. ‘I meant you, Mrs Hudson. Don’t you get hurt. It would break both our hearts.’

  ‘You and Mary…’ I started to say.

  ‘I didn’t mean Mary and me! I meant Holmes and me!’ he interrupted. I must have looked dubious, because he said, ‘He does have a heart. He doesn’t use it much, but it’s there. And you’ve got your place in it.’ He kissed me gently on the cheek, the kiss a son gives his mother. ‘And a place in my heart, too. Don’t you forget it.’

  CHAPTER

  6

  Death at the Docks

  I still remember the very first time I saw Mary Morstan. I answered the door one morning to find her standing there in a plain, neat but slightly faded light brown dress. She was taller than me, and slender. She held up her head, not proudly, but with a certain confidence. She was lovely, not conventionally pretty, but with a refined, expressive face, blue eyes, and coils of heavy gold hair. She carried a packet of papers tightly bound, and she had a determined set to her mouth. When I opened the door, she smiled at me, quite the sweetest smile I had ever seen.

  ‘Good morning. I am looking for Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ she queried, in a low, well-mannered voice. She had the faintest trace of a Scotch accent. My mother and my husband both being Scottish, I have a fondness for that proud and glorious country, and I instinctively smiled back at her. I opened the door wider, and directed her up the stairs.

  She hesitated for a moment, and I saw the hand that gripped the packet tremble slightly, and then tighten. Her manner was poised, and yet there was something in the way she looked up the stairs, as if she were unsure of what she was doing, perhaps even slightly nervous.

  ‘They will be kind,’ I assured her spontaneously. I surprised myself. I never normally spoke a word beyond ‘come in’ and ‘up the stairs’ to Mr Holmes’ clients, yet something about her touched me, and made me want to reach out to her.

  She looked at me, her blue eyes wide, and then smiled.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, and then, with what I was to learn was a characteristic gesture, she put her shoulders back. She took a deep breath, and ascended the staircase.

  When she came back down again, I happened to be in the hall—out of idle curiosity, I assure you; I had nothing useful to be doing there. She saw me and stopped at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs…?’

  ‘Hudson,’ I said to her. She looked happier, almost glowing. ‘It all went well then, Miss…’

  ‘Morstan. A great pleasure to meet you.’ She held out her hand to me; something that happened so rarely I almost didn’t know what to do. I grasped it, and we shook hands, as men do when they decide to become instant friends. ‘It all went very well. Thank you for your comforting words, they were a great boon. And you were right, they were indeed kind.’

  I had wanted to dislike Mary for changing our perfect little household. Instead, she became my greatest friend and bound the four of us even tighter together. She changed all our lives, quite unwittingly. Mary Morstan—Watson these days—was now part of the family of 221b.

  Once John had left, Wiggins opened his mouth to say something, but Billy placed his finger to his own lips to shush him and walked towards the door.

  It wasn’t that we didn’t trust John not to reveal what little he knew, or guessed, but Mr Holmes was so very good at deducing entire stories from tiny little details. When we were sure John was safely upstairs, I had Billy help Wiggins along to the small bedroom on the basement floor and get him into bed. I guessed Wiggins would rather not show weakness to Mary or me, nor would he wish to undress in front of us. Once we were certain Billy and Wiggins were out of earshot, Mary opened the vent.

  We could hear that John was in the rooms above, cleaning his instruments. Mr Holmes must have asked what had happened, because John was telling him that Wiggins had got himself hurt in a fight, he had patched Wiggins up, and yes, Wiggins was going to be perfectly all right.

  So far, so good. But then Mr Holmes asked where Mary was. John replied that his wife was in the kitchen, feeding cake to Wiggins, and was that coffee in the pot?

  Mr Holmes hesitated, and then he said, in a low voice, ‘I don’t like to say this to you, but she’s up to something. Mrs Watson, I mean. And maybe Mrs Hudson too.’

  ‘Probably,’ John said, very unconcernedly. ‘After all, I usually am, why shouldn’t she be? Where’s the cream?’ Mary smiled—some secret joke between husband and wife.

  ‘She is keeping a secret, I am sure,’ Mr Holmes said. This was followed by a rattle, which I believe was him passing John the cream. ‘Are you not curious?’

  ‘Very. But she will tell me what she has been doing eventually, just as eventually I will tell her what I’ve been doing all day with you.’ It must have been a strain on John, balancing between his wife and his best friend, but it did not cause his voice to waver one iota. Mr Holmes was right; John had a spine of iron. ‘Actually, I think I prefer tea,’ John said lightly.

  ‘John,’ Mr Holmes started to say, and I held my breath. He called his friend ‘John’ so rarely I knew he was going to say something momentous, but John stopped him.

  ‘Look at my hat, Holmes. It is dusted. My shoes are clean, my collar ironed, I am several pounds overweight. My wife still loves me,’ he told him, laughing. ‘Look, Holmes, I love my wife with all my heart and soul, and I am certain she loves me the same way.’

  Opposite me, also leaning against the wall to better hear what came from the vent, Mary smiled.

  ‘But,’ John continued, ‘I spend most of my free time running around solving cases with you—which I enjoy greatly, and which has given me a good deal of satisfaction, not to mention a wife. She has never once objected to my time with you—in fact, she encourages it. She sees it as my doing some good in the world, and I believe she feels she owes you a debt, for our marriage. If she, in her turn, wishes to spend her free time with Mrs Hudson doing something that interests them far more than sewing shirts and baking cakes, then I have no objection.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Holmes grudgingly replied. ‘But is what they are doing safe? Wiggins seems quite badly hurt, judging by the amount of bandages you used.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure they are safe,’ John told him, suddenly sounding quite loud, as if he were r
ight next to the vent. ‘They made a promise.’

  Then there was a loud bang—John had closed the vent.

  Mary jumped back from the wall, startled.

  ‘He closed the vent!’ she cried, her cheeks flushing, either with anger or embarrassment. ‘He made that remark about our promise, and then closed the vent. Do you think he did that deliberately?’

  ‘That vent is high up on the wall, and very stiff to open and close,’ I told her. ‘So, yes, I think he did that deliberately.’

  We stood there aghast for a moment. What a discovery! John knew we listened—how long had he known? Had he known all along? I had only ever opened that air vent and listened when the kitchen had been silent. I had no idea he could hear me. Mr Holmes had certainly never hinted he could hear me.

  But then we couldn’t help it. We laughed. Like a pair of naughty schoolgirls caught eating sweets in bed, we laughed.

  Once we had quietened down, I went to the room where Billy had settled Wiggins. He was just tucking his friend in, taking the greatest of care with him, keeping his arms free of the blankets. For once Wiggins looked like just a boy, small and hurt, needing help, though his eyes were as fierce as ever. I sat on the end of the bed, Mary standing behind me, and said, ‘Tell us everything.’

  He took a breath, calmer now, and cradled his sprained arm. I thought of leaving him, waiting for him to tell us later, but I knew he would not sleep until he had made his report. He was conscientious.

  ‘I was following the gent—the husband. It was Billy and me, ’cos I’m teaching him a few tricks of the trade. The bloke was just having a normal day—went to the office, came out at one for lunch, went to the same chop house he always goes to. But then, instead of going back to work, he went for a walk down by the river. And not a posh part neither, he went down to the docks. Right into the dangerous bit. Right where he might get jumped or murdered by anyone, just for the hanky in his pocket, and no one would stop it neither, though it was broad daylight. And he knew it too. He looked…what was it you said, Billy?’

  ‘Apprehensive,’ Billy added. ‘His face was pale and his hands were shaking. I do not think he wanted to be there.’

  ‘No, he did not,’ Wiggins continued. ‘And neither did I, ’cos the docks is not a good place to be. Boys get snatched there.’

  ‘Snatched for what? By whom?’ Mary asked. He looked at her darkly, as if he regretted saying such a thing. I doubt he would have done, if he hadn’t been so light-headed from loss of blood.

  ‘I’d rather not say, missus,’ he said.

  ‘Oh…I see,’ she said, glancing down at me. Wiggins occasionally opened up a whole new dark foul world to us, which we had no idea existed.

  ‘Perhaps Mr Shirley was going to a shipping office,’ I suggested.

  ‘Ain’t no shipping offices down there,’ Wiggins pointed out. ‘Leastways, not one a gent like him would use. ’Sides, he never went to no office. He kind of stopped, and looked round, to see if anyone was following him. He didn’t see me, nor Billy either. We’re too good at that game to be spotted by the likes of ’im! Then, all of a sudden, he darted down these stone steps, right by the water. He was in the open there, nowhere for us to hide, but I knew whatever was happening would happen down there, so I told Billy to wait up top and I went down the steps too, like I was just a river rat, looking for a bit of work, or a bit of rubbish, you know. There was a man down there, right by the river. Light shining up onto his face, sunlight reflected from the river I guess. Couldn’t see him clearly. Mr Shirley went right up to him, and he kept saying something about not telling her, and begging he not tell her ’cos it’d break her.’

  ‘Not tell her what?’ I asked.

  Wiggins shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What did the man look like?’ Mary asked, and Wiggins frowned.

  ‘See, I bin thinking ’bout that, over and over again, but when I close my eyes I can’t see his face, I just see the light from the river shining back at me, right in my eyes. I keep thinking, ’cos I saw his face, just before the light blinded me, I know I saw it, plain as I see you, but I just can’t remember it!’

  ‘It’s the head wound,’ Mary said soothingly. Wiggins was getting agitated. ‘John says it plays havoc with the memory. Just don’t think about it, and it’ll come back to you.’

  ‘What if it don’t?’ he cried, agonized by his failure.

  ‘Then it don’t…doesn’t,’ I told him. ‘We’ll find him another way. Did you see what he was wearing?’

  Wiggins shook his head, but Billy said, ‘Pea jacket, dark peaked cap, shabby trousers. But they didn’t look right for him, he didn’t even move right in them. He walked very odd, stiffly, as if he was trying to remember how to walk.’

  ‘Faking it,’ Wiggins said quietly. ‘Faking the whole lot of it. Did you see his face?’

  ‘No, the cap covered it,’ Billy said quietly. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, you did well. Remembered the clothes, spotted the walk. Well done,’ Wiggins said to Billy gruffly, and the boy shone with pride.

  ‘I remember his voice,’ Wiggins suddenly said. ‘ ’Cos of what he did next. He said to Mr Shirley, “I’m tired of you both. This game has reached an end.” He had a posh, soft voice. It didn’t fit with the rest of him, I know that. And then…then he just pushed Mr Shirley in the river. No warning, not even a threat. ’E just pushed ’im, like he didn’t even care.’

  ‘The river police fished Mr Shirley out,’ Billy said quickly. ‘I saw them. They just happened to be patrolling the docks in a boat, and I called out to them. He was unconscious, but alive. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, I got distracted.’

  ‘Understandable,’ Mary said.

  ‘ ’E saw me,’ Wiggins suddenly said, in a low, almost frightened voice. ‘I don’t remember much, but he must ’ave seen me. I think I ran up the stairs…’

  ‘You did,’ Billy said. ‘But he came after you. He reached you at the top of the stairs, and he grabbed you and shook you and then threw you down. I’m so sorry I didn’t reach you in time,’ Billy told him, almost in tears. ‘I ran so fast but I couldn’t get there.’

  ‘And what would have ’appened if you ’ad got there?’ Wiggins demanded. ‘He’d have thrown you down the steps too, and we’d’ve both lain there bleeding to death with no one giving a damn what happened to us.’

  ‘We give a damn,’ Mary said. ‘We’d’ve found you.’

  ‘Not down there you wouldn’t have. You’d’ve looked, I’ll grant you that, but you’d not have found us. No, Billy saved both our lives,’ Wiggins reassured the traumatized Billy.

  ‘And I brought him here,’ Billy said. ‘Apparently police and doctors ask too many questions,’ he added, darting a glance towards Wiggins.

  ‘Quite right too,’ I said, standing up. ‘And now, I ought to tell Mr Holmes.’

  ‘No!’ Wiggins and Billy cried in unison.

  ‘But, Wiggins, you yourself said if anyone got hurt…’ Mary objected.

  ‘I said if you were hurt, you or Mrs ’Udson,’ Wiggins said firmly. ‘Not me, I’m not important.’

  ‘You are very important,’ I told him.

  ‘Not in the way I mean,’ Wiggins insisted. ‘I know you sort of like me, and I like you and we talk and all that,’ and he blushed fiercely. ‘I meant, it’s me that got hurt, and I’m used to it. But I got hurt by the bloke you’ve been looking for and that makes it my case now. I want it solved, I’m asking you to solve it for me, and I don’t want Mr ’Olmes to do it. He’s brilliant and all that, but I want you. You started it, you asked me to help, and I want you to finish it, and you owe me that. Understand?’

  ‘A question of honour,’ Mary said gently.

  ‘That’s it, missus,’ Wiggins replied, staring back at her.

  ‘Very well,’ Mary agreed. ‘I’m married to a soldier and I’m a soldier’s daughter. I know what that means. No matter how foolish it may seem, we continue ourselves, without Mr Holmes’ help. Agreed?’

&n
bsp; I looked round at the bruised yet defiant boy, his staunch friend at his shoulder, my strong-willed friend standing beside me, and thought of all I could lose.

  ‘Agreed,’ I said.

  Billy, determined as always (and, I think, racked with guilt over Wiggins’ injury), tracked down Mr Shirley to an infirmary. He was alive, barely, still unconscious. It was severely doubted that he would live, let alone wake. Mrs Shirley had been by his bed since the moment she had heard, and now she was making arrangements to have him moved to their home. She would not speak to anyone about the incident or the letters. Billy, telling her he came from Mary and me, stayed only long enough to tell her that if she had secrets, so did her husband. The same man had hurt them both and, Billy, wise beyond his years, told her the best revenge was to love each other, no matter what. She nodded, and agreed. I didn’t feel we could do much more for Mrs Shirley. We had the evidence from Wiggins, we had the evidence of what happened in the docks, and a few days later, we would have far more evidence from other victims.

  Now it wasn’t simply a case of Mrs Shirley and the letters. Now it was a case of attempted murder, not just of Mr Shirley, but Wiggins too. And who knew what else this man had done? A man to write such despicable letters, to throw a defenceless boy and a man to a probable death, must have a long history of vileness.

  Hours later, Mary and I sat in the kitchen, opposite each other, both lost in our own thoughts—not pleasant ones, I fear. We had the vent drawn back, though we were not really listening. I was vaguely aware of John—who must have reopened the vent at some point the previous night—complaining that Mr Holmes’ new tobacco made the rooms smell like a Turkish bazaar. (It did. I have no idea what a Turkish bazaar actually smells like, but I can imagine it smelled the same as the thick odour coming through the air vent.) Mr Holmes retorted that the best way to learn to distinguish between different tobacco types was to smoke them all. The two were rubbing each other up the wrong way today, and nothing in the house seemed right. A moment later, John said he would see Holmes tomorrow and came downstairs.