‘No, we’ll go to Baker Street,’ Mary insisted, yawning. ‘The stories always end at the house at Baker Street.’
I smiled to myself. It didn’t matter what I felt right now. I was being ridiculous. Mary was safe, Irene and Wiggins and Mrs Shirley and numerous unknown women were safe. That would have to do for now. In fact, that would do very well.
‘Stop, stop,’ I cried suddenly. We had turned into Baker Street, finally, having been caught up in the dawn traffic. There, across the street, waiting for us, were the Irregulars. The boys were scattered, some in doorways, some lounging against a wall, some sitting on the kerb. Wiggins stood alone in the centre of the street, the morning light showing his face clearly. He was angry.
I jumped out of the cab.
Wiggins strode towards me.
‘What the ’ell have you done?’ he growled.
I stood back in surprise. He had never spoken to me like that before.
‘Are you all right, missus?’ the cab driver called.
‘Perfectly, thank you. This is a friend of mine,’ I said, never taking my eyes off Wiggins, hoping it was true.
‘You were seen,’ Wiggins told me, his voice low and angry. ‘Think you can get out of Baker Street without one of us seeing yer? You got a cab hours ago, going south—to Richmond, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes…’
‘Where there’s a fire!’ Wiggins shouted. ‘And a man dead, a man with a lot of people interested in what ’e did and how ’e died!’
The cab driver studiously looked away, making it clear he heard none of this.
‘How do you know?’ I said. I was badly shaken.
‘ ’Cos I got a boy at Scotland Yard,’ Wiggins said, quieter, but still furious. ‘ ’E cleans boots. ’E cleans Lestrade’s boots, and he ’eard that Lestrade was personally taking over a case that ’ad just come in, a respectable solicitor burnt to death, and some very prominent people were taking an interest. ’E’ll be in Richmond by now.’
‘Oh,’ I said feebly. Lestrade knew. On the one hand, he could find it all an accident. He probably would. But what if he brought in Sherlock Holmes? What would he discover? And what prominent people did Wiggins mean? Had someone else begun to suspect?
‘Was it you?’ Wiggins demanded between clenched teeth.
Could I lie to him, this boy? Should I? I looked round at all the boys gathered on the street. They had all been in my kitchen, had eaten my cake and drunk my tea. Micky saw me, and tipped his cap. They respected me, and liked me and maybe even looked up at me. Could I tell them what I had done?
‘Yes,’ I said softly.
Wiggins stepped back, drawing his breath in sharply. He turned away, so I wouldn’t see his face, then came back to me.
‘Was it ’im?’
‘It was him,’ I told him. ‘And now he’s dead. The man that hurt you, and killed the Whitechapel Lady, and hurt so many other people and did awful things…’ My voice trailed to a halt as Wiggins stepped closer. He was as tall as me. When had that happened?
‘You stupid woman,’ he hissed. ‘How dare you do that alone!’
‘I wasn’t alone…’
‘You were alone, both of you! Anything could have happened!’
‘Anything did,’ I said shakily.
‘It’s not funny!’ He was worried, really worried about me, and I realized the anger came not from disappointment or disillusionment, but anxiety, like a mother shouting at her child when he runs away.
‘I had to do it alone,’ I told him quietly.
‘Why? Wot do you think we’re ’ere for? It’s for you! It’s for all of you in that ’ouse!’ He gestured towards 221b.
‘I had to prove it,’ I insisted.
‘Prove wot?’
‘That I’m not a silly old woman who’s only fit for baking cakes!’ I shouted.
Wiggins’ face cleared up. He understood that. He had to prove himself over and over again. He’d never survive on the streets if he didn’t. He had to prove he was more than a boy every day.
‘Well, you’re not that,’ he said, and mercy of mercies, he grinned. ‘Though you do make decent cakes.’
I nodded my thanks. Between us two, that was as good as a hug.
‘Promise me you won’t do it again, though?’ he asked.
‘I can’t,’ I told him. ‘Look, can you promise me you’ll never cheat, or lie, or steal? Never, not even to protect your boys? Because I can never promise I’ll never get into trouble again, not to save someone who needs my help.’
Wiggins looked round at his boys. He’d do anything to protect them. And now, looking at me, he recognized a kindred spirit of sorts.
‘How’s the arm?’ I asked. His other hand went hurriedly up to his injured arm.
‘It’s all right,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Sorry I bled on your floor.’
‘Probably not the last time,’ I told him.
He smiled sardonically.
The sun was up now and the street was beginning to get busy. The cab driver yawned pointedly, loud enough to cover the yards between us. I ignored him. ‘Micky’s invited for gingerbread this afternoon,’ I said to Wiggins. ‘Will you join him?’
He hesitated, then nodded. He peered into the cab at Mary.
‘You’d better get her inside,’ he said to me. ‘She don’t look none too clever.’
‘I will, thank you,’ I said. And thank you for wanting to protect me, thank you for looking after me, thank you for bringing me Billy, thank you for bringing yourself, thank you for coming to my kitchen to eat gingerbread. I could never say those words, he’d hate them, but we both knew I was thinking them. I walked round to Mary’s side of the cab.
‘And look out for Lestrade,’ Wiggins called. ‘He wants to solve this one.’ Then, in a moment, the Irregulars melted into side streets and alleyways and had all disappeared.
‘Thank you,’ I said to the driver as I helped Mary out of the cab. I paid the driver well, and gave him a huge tip. Mary was very tired, which was hardly surprising given the night we’d had. ‘If the police should ask, by the way…’
‘I ain’t seen a thing,’ the driver said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Mr Holmes and the police don’t always get on, do they? Well, I’d rather be on Mr Holmes’ side.’
‘Right…um, thank you,’ I said, as he drove away.
Mary and I stumbled through the door of 221b, utterly exhausted, drained, bloodstained and scorched. That was when we saw Mr Holmes, standing at the bottom of the stair, fully dressed, his wound apparently healing nicely, staring at us as we came in.
‘You’ll wake Watson,’ he said.
‘No we won’t, he sleeps heavily,’ I said to him.
‘What have you been doing?’ he demanded, apparently in amazement.
‘Can’t you guess?’ Mary asked sleepily, leaning on me.
‘I don’t guess,’ he said coldly. He looked us up and down, saw the state of our clothes, the expressions on our faces, the tiredness in our eyes, and a new look crossed his face, one I had never seen before. I am not sure if it was confusion, or worry.
‘Mary?’ he asked, looking at her intently.
I’ve only ever heard Sherlock Holmes use Mary’s first name twice. One I shall tell you of when I have the nerve. The only other occasion was now.
I turned to look at Mary. She was not just leaning against me, she was slumped against me. She was weak, barely able to stand, her face white, her breathing shallow. As I clasped her, I realized that there was a bloodstain all along her side—and it was fresh, and dripping. In our exhilaration at solving the case, neither of us had recognized how badly hurt she was.
‘I think the bullet may have struck closer than I thought,’ Mary murmured. ‘In fact, I’m not sure he did miss me.’ Then the last of her strength gave way, and she collapsed.
Mr Holmes leapt forward and caught her before she hit the floor.
‘Watson!’ he bellowed, sweeping Mary up into his arms, seemingly unconscious of his own injury. �
�You and your medical kit are needed in the kitchen immediately!’
I moved to follow as he carried Mary to the kitchen door, but at that moment the doorbell rang. What a moment for callers! I stepped away from the door, I was going to ignore it, but Mr Holmes stopped me.
‘It’s Lestrade; I saw him coming down the street,’ he said, shifting Mary’s weight in his arms. She moaned, but did not seem conscious. ‘You have to answer it, but don’t let him in, and don’t tell him anything.’
‘What shall I say?’ I demanded to know, half-frantic.
‘Lie, Mrs Hudson,’ he told me, manoeuvring Mary down the kitchen stairs. ‘It’s easy, I lie all the time.’
And with that he was gone. John came hurtling down the main stairs, carrying his bag, his shirt half hanging out of his trousers where he had dressed hastily. He stopped when he saw blood drops around the front door. I pointed mutely at the kitchen. I did not have the courage to tell him it was Mary who was hurt. I took a shawl that had been across the newel post and flung it around me, hiding, I hoped, the bloodstains and the scorch marks. Then I took a deep breath, patted my hair down, straightened my skirts, and in a stately manner, opened the front door.
Inspector Lestrade stood there, two police officers flanking him. He sniffed when he saw me, his pinched face crumpled with tiredness, and yet his eyes were bright and eager.
Oh dear. He was on the trail. He’d heard the news, humming over the wires to Scotland Yard. A mysterious fire, the body of a man no one really knew and the remains of thousands of files. I wondered if perhaps there were a few names left in the ashes, just enough to pique the interest of some very important people indeed.
Now Inspector Lestrade was here to ask Mr Holmes to solve the case. This case of the burning man. It would be manslaughter, and we had caused the death. It could even be murder at worst: we had not tried to help, we had not called for assistance, we had merely driven away. We could end up in jail. We could be hanged!
And all those secrets we fought to keep would be revealed.
If Inspector Lestrade came in, he’d follow the blood on the wooden hall floor to the kitchen, and find Mary there, a table full of letters and a map pointing towards the dead man’s home.
All those thoughts crossed my mind in seconds, and, I hope, did not show in my well-trained face. I merely stood straight and tall, and hoped he couldn’t see what state my clothes were in under the shawl. I wondered if he could smell the smoke on me.
Mr Lestrade asked if Mr Holmes was in. I, in my very best housekeeper manner, replied that he was not; he was busy right now.
‘At this hour of the morning?’ Inspector Lestrade asked.
‘Mr Holmes works all hours,’ I told him. ‘As, obviously, do you.’
‘Maybe he’s already on the case,’ the inspector mused, and turned to leave.
That was when John called out, ‘What the hell happened?’ very loudly, from the kitchen. He must have just seen the state of Mary. I ignored the shout, and settled my face into its usual imperturbability.
Inspector Lestrade turned round to me again, and this time his sharp eyes were suspicious.
‘That was Dr Watson,’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Holmes is not here, but Dr Watson is,’ I said slowly, as if explaining to a small child. ‘And the doctor has a patient, so if you will excuse me…’ I tried to close the door, but the inspector held it open.
‘Mr Holmes has left without Dr Watson?’ Inspector Lestrade asked disbelievingly.
‘They’re not joined at the hip!’ I snapped. Out of the corner of my eye I saw blood spots on the floor right in front of Inspector Lestrade—Mary’s blood, fresh and red. I slid my foot across to cover them. ‘Especially since Dr Watson got married. And I will not let you intrude on the doctor when he has a patient.’
Inspector Lestrade peered past me and up the stairs. I glanced over my shoulder. Just out of his eye line was a trail of blood along the hall leading to the kitchen. My God, how much blood had she lost?
If he came in, he’d see it, and insist on finding out what was going on.
I looked back at the inspector, trying hard to maintain my respectable coolness, as all housekeepers showed all the police. He watched me sharply. Mr Holmes had often referred to him as a terrier. The inspector was not clever, but he was tenacious. Once he found the smallest thread, he grasped it and worried it until he got to the end. If he came in and saw the blood, he would find the truth.
‘There was rather a worrying incident last night,’ the inspector said to me. ‘There was a fire, a man died and his home was destroyed, along with many confidential papers. It is believed to be an accident, but it’s just possible it may be murder. There are some small inconsistencies, the kind of thing Mr Holmes can usually find a great deal of importance in. If I could consult him…’
‘Inspector Lestrade,’ I said firmly, ‘I am sorry a man has died, but as I said before, Mr Holmes is out, will be all day and I don’t know when he’ll be back. Now if you don’t mind…’
I tried again to close the door, but Inspector Lestrade stuck his foot in the gap.
‘If I could just leave a note in his rooms…’ he started to say.
‘Inspector Lestrade!’ I insisted, exasperated. ‘I am taking the opportunity of Mr Holmes’ absence to give his rooms a thorough clean. The carpets are up, the floor is being polished and if you think I’m going to let you tramp all over my clean floors and get in my way to leave a note Mr Holmes probably won’t read you’re very mistaken!’ I said firmly, but loudly, every inch the aggrieved, harassed landlady. One of the policemen took a step away, the other sniggered.
‘Mrs Hudson,’ Inspector Lestrade tried to say, soothingly.
‘If you want Mr Holmes that badly,’ I continued, ‘I suggest you try and find him. You are a detective after all! He’s been spending a lot of time at the docks lately. You can start there, and leave me to get on with my work. Good day!’
And with that, I successfully slammed the door in his face.
I heard him go down the steps and into the streets, petulantly upbraiding the policeman who had laughed. I turned round and leaned against the door, shaking. I had never been rude to a policeman before.
‘Brava, Mrs Hudson,’ Mr Holmes said softly. I looked up to see him standing in the hallway, at the top of the kitchen stairs.
‘Mary?’ I asked.
‘Merely a graze, exacerbated by exhaustion and excitement,’ he assured me, walking towards me in the bright morning light. ‘Watson is a very skilled physician. She will be all right.’
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. We might, perhaps, have got away with it all. Except…
‘Billy also said that he packed away all your papers and put them somewhere safe. He refused to tell me what papers, despite the fact I pay him!’ he said, gently frustrated.
‘Yes, but I feed him.’
Mr Holmes walked into the light and faced me.
‘Can you tell me what all this is about? Mrs Watson refuses to say a word.’
I think perhaps I wanted to say, just to tell him what I had done, that he was no longer the only detective in 221b Baker Street, but I could not.
‘No,’ I said softly, shaking my head. ‘I cannot tell you.’ He took a deep breath, and looked at me.
‘I could find out,’ he said.
‘Don’t,’ I pleaded.
He looked at me for a moment, then said, ‘Very well, Mrs Hudson. For your sake, I shall leave this mystery alone.’
He offered me his arm. ‘The docks?’ he asked.
‘I understand you can catch some very nasty diseases down there,’ I said venomously. He chuckled.
‘Come to the kitchen,’ he said. ‘I made tea. I understand it to be good for shock.’
He made tea? Sherlock Holmes had made tea for me, Mrs Hudson, his housekeeper?
‘Did you warm the pot first?’
Epilogue
Mary and I held firm. John asked over and over again what had h
appened. Mary refused to tell him, and when he got angry, she snapped at him.
‘Tell me about the Giant Rat of Sumatra then!’ she countered. ‘You’re not allowed to, are you?’
He blushed then. He appealed to Mr Holmes for help, but the detective merely leaned against the dresser, drinking his tea.
‘Sorry, Watson, I made a promise,’ Mr Holmes said, glancing at me. ‘As, I suspect, these ladies have.’
‘She was shot, Holmes!’ John shouted. His hair was all over the place, his trousers hastily pulled on over his crumpled nightshirt.
‘Which makes Mrs Hudson the only person in this room never to have been shot,’ Mr Holmes said coolly. ‘At least, I presume…?’
‘Not even once,’ I told him. ‘John, please understand, we have indeed made promises…’
‘Mrs Hudson, I intend to tell Inspector Lestrade it was quite clearly an accident. Whatever it is he’s asking me. Watson, I believe this is the time to get your wife home so she can rest.’
John looked round to Mary, who sat at the table, stronger now, but still pale.
‘Mary,’ he said beseechingly.
‘I will tell you,’ she promised. ‘But other people’s secrets depend on it, so not for a long while yet. Please trust me, sweetheart.’ She smiled at him bewitchingly, with true love, and he gave in. Grumpily, John agreed to take her home. As I helped her into her coat, she told me she would write to every woman we knew who had been a victim of this man, including Lillian and Irene. The letter would not say anything beyond the words ‘you are free’.
Mr Holmes locked himself in his rooms all afternoon, with piles of old papers and his reference books. I left him alone, and cleaned blood out of the carpets—not for the first or, may I add, the last time. At sunset, I carried tea up to Mr Holmes’ rooms— but I stopped before I went in. He was playing the violin—a sweet Scotch tune that I had loved as a child and that I myself had hummed to Mr Holmes. He knew it was my favourite but he rarely played it, saying it was too simple a piece to please him. And yet tonight, the notes floated through the air towards me, and filled my heart. Cold as Mr Holmes could be, his music was always full of emotion. I sat on the stair and listened, and wept, I know not why.
All Roads Lead to Whitechapel Page 25