I shivered and said, “I am ever grateful that his horrible plan did not succeed.” At this Mr. Holmes began to chuckle. “I fail to see what is so amusing, sir.”
He smiled and said, “Just the thought that your own mother would most likely murder me while I slept if she ever discovered what you have been through for the sake of my employment.”
“Surely you must know, Mr. Holmes, that I would never let you into her grasp should this story ever spread further.”
“I do, and I am glad for it. Further, I will ensure that our dog is wounded, ill, or very old—hopefully the latter—before he comes to use in my science.” With that he stood up, sighed peacefully and left me to rest at my leisure.
When I was sufficiently recovered, I resumed my duties as housekeeper of Baker Street, and have thus remained, and will remain to the end of my days.
A Death in Spring
As the snows of winter melted into the rains of spring, my employment with Mr. Holmes became more relaxed—not in his vigilance or habits, but rather in his becoming more receptive to my ideas and suggestions, especially concerning house and social matters, but also in some cases as well. His inferences and conclusions never ceased to amaze me. Though the doctor was far less observant and infinitely more congenial than Mr. Holmes, we were content in our place at Baker Street. We were engaged in the sitting room, discussing their latest case, when the first news of my mother’s illness reached me. I held the letter tightly in my hand, so as not to raise any immediate alarm.
“What is it, Martha?” asked Mr. Holmes, coming nearer to me. There are few things that could escape him, though at this time I must admit that I did not wish for his intense, silent interrogation.
“My mother is ill.” I folded the letter smartly, but my voice was too strained to escape notice.
“Then you must be off at once,” Mr. Holmes answered without ceremony. “Watson will escort you.”
I nodded and returned to my rooms to prepare for the journey. Privately, I read the letter again and stowed it in my coat pocket. This done, I returned to the entryway, where Dr. Watson was waiting for me. A look of worry flashed across Mr. Holmes’s face, which caused me to pause.
“Are you sure you will do well without me, sir?”
“Perfectly,” he said with the wave of his hand, the expression replaced by his usual stoicism.
A cab was called for, and soon Dr. Watson and I were on our way to Charing Cross. We sat in silence a long while, until Dr. Watson finally asked, “How ill is she?”
At first I was reluctant to share any thoughts on the matter. I soon thought better of this, however, as I knew he meant only to aid me. I reached for the letter in my pocket, but discovered it was missing; it had fallen through a hole where my fingers now appeared. No matter, I thought to myself; I could easily recite the words from memory, so deep an impression they had made upon my mind.
“The influenza has reached her lungs. A fever quickly followed, and has worsened her condition considerably. I fear the time has come to prepare for the worst.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, but I quickly wiped them away. Dr. Watson frowned, pondering.
“Perhaps I can help your mother,” he said quietly, attempting to reassure me.
I shook my head. “She has had fragile health for some years now. I knew of it, but whenever I mentioned doctors she would adamantly refuse.”
I could feel my face burning; my heart wanted to burst in anguish, but I wished to spare myself personal humiliation and Dr. Watson any embarrassment.
We pulled up in front of my home, and I seemed to forget all else but my mother. I ran down the front path, calling to her before I had even reached the door. I opened it and stood in the doorway, looking at my mother, whose face was more thin and worn than I had ever seen it. Her skin was ashen, and her delirium was the only real sign of life in her.
Seeing her lying helpless in this way, I completely lost myself. I cried out and knelt at her bedside, tears flowing freely down my face. A strong hand touched my shoulder, and the domestic doctor’s deep voice broke the surrounding hush.
“There is little I can do for her now,” he said slowly, and sighed. “Does she have a priest?”
I turned to face him; a sudden rush of anger and hatred coursed through me, but another voice from the doorway said my thoughts aloud.
“What, man?!” said Dr. Watson sharply. “Have you no tact? Have you no sense of propriety? Miss Beauregard has only just returned from Baker Street after receiving the news, and already you have given up hope.”
At this they began to quarrel, and I could stand it no longer. “Dr. Bradley,” I said in exasperation, “we will fetch Father Patrick later this evening if needed.” After he had left, Dr. Watson looked at me in a penitent manner.
“Doctor Watson, would you please do what you can for her? After that—” I held my breath, but then pressed on, “the rest is in God’s hands.”
He nodded solemnly. He looked down at my mother, frowned, and immediately set to work. He asked me to fetch a few things for him, but the rest of that day was spent chiefly in my own reflections. As the sun was setting over the kitchen garden, Rupert appeared in the doorway.
“Martha,” he said, kissing me gently. “I came as soon as I heard.” He looked over at where my mother lay and his forehead creased.
“Oh Rupert.” I embraced him and began to weep quietly. For a while Rupert stroked my hair as I wept; Dr. Watson stood and they shook hands.
“Well, Martha,” Dr. Watson said softly to me, “we shall hope for the best.” He tried to smile encouragingly.
I nodded and said, “Will you tell Mr. Holmes I will return as soon as possible, though I do not know how soon it will be?”
He nodded and went out. Soon the only sound in the room was my mother’s ragged breathing.
I sat in a chair near her bedside while Rupert lit candles. I took her hand and prayed silently over her, though my mind said my faith was in vain. “Please do not leave me,” I whispered, hoping she could hear my voice. I knelt down, resting my head on her arm. We remained in this way until Rupert directed me to a chair to begin the longest night of my life.
We sat in silence, watching my mother slip away. Her feverish delirium had quieted, but still she would mumble, and I constantly felt that she was trying to speak to me.
“Rupert,” I asked, attempting to fill the emptiness that stretched out before us. “What am I to do? I do not know what I will do without Mother. I should have been here sooner… If I had, perhaps I could have spared her this suffering.” I buried my face in my hands.
“You could not have known this was going to happen,” Rupert answered, I am sure to comfort me.
“I know it, but I should have spent more time with her. She was always there when I needed her, but now—” I gazed at her struggling form and sighed, despairing.
Rupert kissed me on the forehead. “I think she couldn’t be prouder.” I smiled weakly, resting my head against his shoulder, and for some minutes there was relative peace.
I was awakened from my reverie by a strangled cry from the bed. I leapt to my mother’s side as she gasped for breath. “Fetch Dr. Bradley!”
“But I can’t leave you—”
“Go, now!” I shouted desperately as she began a fit of coughing. I heard the door slam loudly, then embraced my mother tightly as she struggled between this world and the next.
“Don’t go, please don’t go,” I begged, rocking her back and forth like a child. “I can’t do this without you.” She gasped once more, her eyes closed, and she was gone.
“No…no!” I cried out in agony, shaking her limp body. My heart refused to believe her spirit had departed. At last, when I could deny it no more, I laid my head upon her breast and wept myself into a dark oblivion.
It was dawn when I awoke. The candles had sputtered out, and a sliver of light shone through the kitchen window. My mother’s body still lay where I had grasped it. I sighed and rubbed my eyes,
brushing the hair from Mother’s face.
I heard the creak of a chair and turned suddenly round to see Mr. Holmes standing before me.
“Mr. Holmes,” I said with some surprise, “how long have you been sitting there?”
“A while,” he answered, “but I had not the heart to wake you.”
The realization of the task at hand made my heart sink. I looked at my mother’s lifeless body and lost all hope. I stretched out my hands to him, pleading.
“Mr. Holmes, I—”
He held up his hand, and I bowed my head. He put his fingers gently beneath my chin to raise it, and then said softly, “Do not worry about the arrangements… I shall make them for you.” I nodded gratefully.
“I will also send for Watson—We will most certainly need him. Along the way he can catch Mr. Hudson.”
I gasped as I thought of how I had sent Rupert, confused and distraught, running into the night for a doctor who was useless upon arrival.
“What is the matter, Martha?” asked Mr. Holmes with concern.
I shook my head, unable to speak. After a moment’s pause, he said, “Rupert is well, if you are concerned for him.” And further asked if I could ready my mother for burial.
I did so, though an eternity must have passed before I was finished. A peculiar mood settled upon me, and no matter how I dressed her, I felt something was amiss. From time to time I saw Mr. Holmes glance in my direction, brow knitted, but when I met his gaze he turned away.
At last Dr. Watson, Dr. Bradley, Father Patrick and Rupert arrived. I went to the garden to pick flowers as the body was laid in a simple pinewood coffin. While I was in the garden Rupert came, silently interlocking his fingers in mine. I turned to face him and he brushed my cheek affectionately. We returned to the house hand in hand, and I knew then that I would not face this ordeal alone.
We buried her on the outskirts of town, on a hill overlooking the scene near my father’s grave. The service was simple, and Father Patrick did his best for so small an audience. As the sermon ended, the dark, brooding sky displayed my suffering, and shed the water my eyes could not. Even in the rain, while others ran for shelter, I could not bear to leave the site. I thought I was alone, until I heard Mr. Holmes’s voice near my ear.
“She is not here, Martha,” he said gently, coming up beside me.
“I know that, and yet I cannot bear the thought of being without her in this world.”
“What do you mean?”
“Both my parents are now dead, sir,” I said sadly. “I have no home, no place to find refuge as my life crumbles about me.”
“That is not true,” Mr. Holmes said adamantly. “You will always have Baker Street.”
I turned to look at him, who was soaking and shivering, and said coldly, “You had better return to the house, Mr. Holmes. You will surely catch your death.”
“I’m not moving a step until you come with me.” I looked at him contemptuously, but said nothing.
Thus forced, we made our way back to the house, where a warm fire and the others were waiting.
“Martha,” said Rupert in a worried tone as he hurriedly wrapped a blanket about my shoulders. “I thought you were right behind us. Thank you for fetching her, Mr. Holmes.”
He nodded, but said nothing of what had passed between us. Dr. Bradley and Father Patrick said their final condolences and left. The four of us sat in silence as the fire crackled and the thunder boomed outside. “What are you going to do, Martha?” Rupert said at last.
I rubbed my eyes, exhausted. I attempted to focus, but no thought would come. I finally shook my head in frustration, biting my tongue to spare myself from saying anything regrettable in a moment of anger. I did not want to think anymore, to try anymore.
“I think the best thing, for the next couple of days at least, is for Miss Beauregard to come back with Dr. Watson and I until we can properly decide what to do.”
Rupert began to protest, but at a stern glance from Mr. Holmes fell silent. “We will take good care of her for you, Mr. Hudson.”
At this, Rupert nodded, sighed and rose to leave.
“Rupert,” I called, and he turned in the doorway. I kissed him and said, “I will let you know what is to be done as soon as I find out myself.” He smiled, kissed me again, and was gone.
Shortly thereafter, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and I were driving back to Baker Street. We entered the house without much talk, whereupon Mr. Holmes ordered me straight to bed. “For now you must rest, Martha. We will leave the other matters until morning.” He sniffled and coughed, but I thought of nothing save to follow his first direct order. As soon as my head felt the pillow beneath it, I was deeply asleep.
I was awakened sometime in the night by a loud, continuous coughing. At first I thought I was dreaming, reliving my mother’s final moments. When it did not desist, however, I arose, attempting to follow the sound. I discovered it was coming from Mr. Holmes’s room, where a lamp still burned. I knocked softly, and hearing a rough “Come in,” I entered.
Mr. Holmes sat up in bed, his face red from the used handkerchiefs strewn about on the floor. He sneezed and coughed, his voice deep and strained. “Did I wake you? I’m terribly sorry about that.”
“I thought I was dreaming at first; when the coughing did not stop, I came to see what the matter was.”
“Do not fear; it is nothing more than a horrendous cold.” He continued to cough and sniffle, but acted as though nothing was amiss.
“The fault is mine,” I said penitently. “Had I followed the others to the house, this would not have happened.”
He dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “I would have gladly done more had there been a need.”
I nodded and turned to leave, but before I could stop myself I had asked, “How did you know to come when you did?”
He thought for a long moment, and then said, “It was more unfortunate that I did not arrive sooner. I was on a case soon after you left me, but as soon as I returned to Baker Street, Watson was waiting for me. He apprised me of your situation, and we left for Charing Cross immediately… Alas, we were too late.”
“There was nothing you could have done,” I said quietly, struggling to retain composure.
“Still…” He paused, and a tense hush filled the room. He broke out of his reverie and said, “My wish is to help you in any way possible.”
“You have already done so much,” I said in some distress. “I do not wish to burden you further.”
“Burden? You have never been a burden,” Mr. Holmes replied with conviction. He coughed once more and shook his head to clear it.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” I said. “I don’t know what is to become of me.” I fell, despairing, into the nearest chair.
Taken aback, Mr. Holmes said nervously, “I had hoped that you would stay on at Baker Street…” I raised my head sharply, taking in his meaning. “Not as hired help but as a permanent resident.”
Words failed me entirely. Unsure of my feelings, Mr. Holmes pressed on. “You can sell the house at Charing Cross… Watson needs the company, and Mr. Hudson would be welcome also.”
“I fear, sir, that you are being far too generous with me.”
“Not at all,” he assured me nonchalantly. “You have served me better than I deserve for quite some time, and it is high time I repaid you. Besides, considering your current situation, I thought it the most logical action.”
Overwhelmed with gratitude, I whispered, “You are a noble soul, Mr. Holmes.”
He inhaled deeply. “Well, I don’t know about that—I was only taking the most practical course.”
I nodded, rose, and after a quiet “thank you” left the room. That night I slept in peace, grateful for angels in the guise of mortal men.
Thus, it was through this event that I became a permanent fixture of Baker Street, bestowing my services on the home and its residents for many years to come.
The Diamond Thief
Some weeks after my mother’s death,
I had sold the house at Charing Cross and made Baker Street my home. I was well received by Dr. Watson, who one day privately assured me that I was a welcome addition to the family. After his initial proposal, Mr. Holmes had never since spoken of it, but I suspect that he enjoyed the prospect of a womanly influence in the house as well as anyone. As for myself, I soon became completely comfortable with my new life, save for times of extreme difficulty when meals went untouched or my masters were in physical danger. Rupert was also allowed to visit often, though he was significantly less comfortable with Mr. Holmes’s methods of interrogation, and so on occasion we left Baker Street for the outskirts of the city.
It was on one of these outings, as we were walking along the hills near the edge of town, that Rupert struck up a conversation with me.
“Martha,” he said nervously, “Do you enjoy living at Baker Street?”
“Yes, of course,” I answered without hesitation. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are most generous and kind to me.”
He inhaled sharply and continued, “Could you be happier somewhere else…with someone else?”
“I suppose so,” I said, confused. “But why—” I turned my head to look at him and became instantly worried. He was deathly pale, and looked as if he might faint.
“Rupert, what is the matter? You look ill. Perhaps we should turn back.”
As I turned around to head off the hill, Rupert grasped my hand, kissed me hard upon the lips, and before I could gain my bearings, was kneeling on the ground before me.
“I wish for you to be my wife,” he said quickly, his hands trembling. “Oh Martha, you do not know how long I have loved and adored you. If you would agree to marry me, I would be the happiest man alive!”
As I stared down at him in disbelief, my head began to spin. Taking my lack of speech for a misstep, Rupert hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry, Martha, I only thought—”
The Hudson Diaries Page 4
