The Hudson Diaries

by Kara L. Barney

  “I have neglected you long enough,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even.

  “Of all the days…” Mr. Holmes mumbled to himself, then said aloud to me, “one more day of neglect will kill no one.”

  “Can I do this, Mr. Holmes?” The truth was out; I wrung my hands and could not focus properly on any one object in the room.

  Mr. Holmes met my eyes and took me squarely by the shoulders. “You do love him, don’t you?”

  “More than anything in the world.”

  “Then it is time to show the world who you love the most. Now go, before the entire town decides to hunt me down.”

  I breathed deeply, relieved by this encouragement. As I opened the door to depart, Mr. Holmes called after me. “Watson will bring your dress in a couple hours’ time.”

  I ran down the porch steps, but just before the cab arrived, I did the unthinkable—I ran back into the house, embraced Mr. Holmes where he stood, whispered a quick “thank you” and rushed out again. I believe I heard something like “silly girl” muttered in my wake.

  The next few hours were spent in the hands of my mother’s friends, who insisted that my face and hair be primped and polished until I could bear it no longer. My fingers suffered the same fate. The ladies positively howled when Dr. Watson arrived with my dress, appalled that a man should be carrying a woman’s apparel, especially on her wedding day.

  “May I speak with the bride for a minute or two?” asked Dr. Watson cordially.

  I left the ladies to surmise and gossip as they pleased, and stepped into the hallway.

  “What is it, sir?” I asked with some concern.

  “If you ask me, I’d say you needed a breather.” He smiled slightly, and I could not suppress a laugh.

  “But I also… Ah…” He fidgeted and quickly handed me a small blue handkerchief. “There,” Dr. Watson said hurriedly. “I hope I got it right. Something about having blue on your wedding day.” He shrugged, interlocking his fingers nervously.

  I smiled, and could not resist embracing him also. “It’s perfect.”

  “Baker Street will not be the same without you, Miss Beauregard… But I should call you Mrs. Hudson now,” he admitted shyly.

  “To you I shall always be Martha,” I said before the door opened and I was drawn in by insistent, busy hands.

  Eventually, when all was ready concerning my person, I was left alone. I could not be still, and so I wandered the halls of the church for a time, pondering on the many events that had led me to the present moment. In my wanderings I found myself in front of the chapel doors, and after a moment’s pause, slowly opened them.

  As I entered, the sun streamed beautifully through the stained-glass windows, filling the room with beams of color. To my surprise, I discovered someone sitting alone in the pews near the center. As I rustled lightly down the aisle, he turned, and I smiled.

  “You’re early,” I said, sitting down next to him.

  “I wouldn’t miss an occasion like this for all the world.” said Mr. Holmes tentatively. Knowing that it was difficult for him to enjoy such social gatherings, that was a very high compliment indeed.

  “Surely sir, an extra half-hour, rather than a whole one, would have been sufficient.”

  He chuckled and tapped his fingers together, pondering.

  “Are you well, Mr. Holmes?” I asked.

  “Yes. I only wish that I had been more prepared for a day such as this one…a day I knew would come too quickly for me.”

  It was my turn to laugh now. “Worry not, you shall never lose me as a friend.”

  “You, and Rupert as well, are always welcome at Baker Street,” said Mr. Holmes, smiling slightly. “I am sure Watson will be glad for the merrier company, for I am not always the best of companions.”

  I giggled, and for a while we sat in peaceful silence. Realizing the time for the ceremony was at hand, I rose, saying, “I had better see that all is in order before the wedding begins,” and I turned away.

  “Martha,” Mr. Holmes called, and I turned back. He took me by the shoulders, smiled once more and sighed. “You look beautiful,” he said—then he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  Taken aback by this show of affection, I paused before leaving the chapel, watching my former employer sitting alone, and hoping in my heart that he could find such happiness as I had found in Rupert.

  The ceremony went perfectly—Dr. Watson did quite well in giving me away, though he might say otherwise—the day was fine and joy abounded.

  A few times I caught Mr. Holmes looking about suspiciously, as was his way, for few were trustworthy, and all were thrust beneath his interrogative stare. As is generally expected, however, I was distracted by the music, dancing, and the many well-wishers who congratulated us as we passed them. William Hughes, Mary Moore and Thomas Gray, along with many of our friends from childhood, came to wish us well, and I could not have been happier.

  As the sun was slowly sinking over the park, Rupert and I were bidding farewell to many of the guests as Mr. Holmes approached stealthily. He smiled and went to embrace me, but as he did so he whispered in my ear, “Beware, you are being watched.” He squeezed me tightly, and gave me such an earnest look that I dared not question it.

  “Mr. Holmes…” I started to say, but he shook hands with Rupert, turned away and was gone.

  I turned about nervously and saw a pair of eyes I knew well, surrounded by dank, dark hair. The shadow moved off slowly, then disappeared from sight.

  At last, when all the guests had departed and we retired to our rooms, Rupert sighed in relief. “At last we can be alone together.” He came up behind me, and I stared at our reflection in the full-length mirror. Mr. Holmes’s warning came quickly to my mind. I turned to Rupert, worried.

  “Mr. Holmes told me that we were being watched this evening,” I said nervously.

  Rupert then did something unexpected; he laughed aloud. Seeing my look of consternation, he said, “Come now, Martha. You know how suspicious he becomes at social functions. Besides, logically,” he smiled slyly, “we were being watched by everyone.”

  Sensing my lingering fear, Rupert kissed me reassuringly and whispered, “Worry not, my dearest Martha; I shall protect you now and for ever after.”

  I smiled and soon felt at peace again, falling asleep in Rupert’s arms. But oh, how I wish now that I had heeded that warning given so long ago!

  Two Fatal Wounds

  In a few short months upon my marriage to Rupert, and ending my employment with Mr. Holmes, we were settled in a comfortable, modest home. This particular evening, Rupert had not yet returned home from his work, and I was making supper. The rain poured heavily, and as the afternoon waned into twilight, Rupert opened the door.

  “Rupert, my love,” said I, “I feared that you might have been swept away by some creature of the night.”

  “No, my dear,” he answered as he took me up in his arms. “I shall always find my way back to you.” We began to dance, and as we laughed and twirled again and again, I suddenly remembered supper.

  “Oh, the supper is burning!” I cried, and ran to fetch it.

  Rupert took my hand and said, smiling, “Then we shall fast, for love is all the food we shall need tonight. Dance with me still, my darling!” We continued to do so, all else forgotten, until suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass and Rupert halted. “Martha,” he said as if strained; then a second shot rang out.

  “Rupert?” I asked. Struck by this sudden change, I touched his back and realized he was bleeding. “Rupert? No!” He fell into my arms, and as I lowered him to the floor, he whispered “Martha,” once more and was gone. I sobbed over his lifeless form for what seemed like an age, unable to move or think. At last I collected myself enough to get to Baker Street.

  Upon my arrival, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson greeted me warmly, Mr. Holmes saying, “My dear Mrs. Hudson, how very good of you to call upon us this evening. What brings you here this hour?”

  I cannot re
collect how long I stood there in silence, but at last I said, “Rupert is… Rupert is…” and was in the next moment awakened by the pungent smell of salts.

  “What has befallen your husband?” asked Mr. Holmes. “Is he ill?” His brow creased in worry.

  “He is dead, Mr. Holmes—dead!” I wept continually for the next hour, while Mr. Holmes called on Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard and begged me to explain.

  “We were dancing in the kitchen—I had let the supper burn—and then through the window two shots were fired… We have no enemies that I know of. Who would do this, Mr. Holmes?”

  He shook his head, confused and disgusted, and began pacing the room. “The two shots hit Rupert in the back, I presume?”

  I nodded, feeling the room spin around me. Dr. Watson held tight to my arm and I was glad he did so. Mr. Holmes continued, “Did he say anything to you before he…died?”

  I sobbed anew at this, for hearing the news from someone else’s lips felt to me as though I had never heard it until that moment. A heavy silence pervaded the room and, except for my weeping, there was no other noise for a time. Mr. Holmes asked again, more gently, “Martha, did he say anything?”

  “My name,” I attempted to breathe steadily, “twice. And then he was gone. Ah, my dearest Rupert is gone!” I cried out in agony. I still had not the faintest idea who would wish to murder my husband. Just then the inspector knocked at the door. He gave Mr. Holmes something, told him some particulars and said that he believed Mr. Holmes should inspect the area himself to see if he could discover anything. He nodded, closed the door and asked Dr. Watson for a private conference. After a few minutes Mr. Holmes returned, saying, “I shall be back shortly. Dr. Watson will take care of you until my return.” He must have seen my face, for he then said, “We will find him Martha, I promise.”

  Dr. Watson was as kind and congenial to me as ever, attempting to alleviate my sorrow with conversation. Alas, my mind was distracted, and poor Dr. Watson was left speaking mainly to himself. When his store of small subjects was finally depleted, he said, “My dear, I feared that I would get to this eventually, but…ah, Mr. Holmes suggested that—ah…that we begin looking into arrangements for the funeral.”

  All feeling went from my body. I could not speak or move, even if I had wished to. Coming out of my reverie, I said, “He left no will… Rupert’s family is also small, quite small. In two days we could put him in the earth.”

  With this concise explanation tears welled up again, and Dr. Watson offered me his third handkerchief; I could only sigh and wipe the tears away. At last I stood up and went immediately to the door. My hand was on the knob when Dr. Watson said, “But wait! Where are you going?”

  “To market to buy flowers for the funeral.” When he asked if he could escort me, I told him not to worry, that I was well and would soon return. When he adamantly discouraged my going, I said that my wish was merely to be productive, nothing more. He at last grudgingly consented and I left. When I came back to the Baker Street door, Mr. Holmes had returned. A heated argument was taking place which abruptly ended upon my entrance.

  “Mrs. Hudson, I have some news.” Mr. Holmes struggled to sound at ease; there was a look in his eye that detected suspicious behavior. “I do not know who it is, but I know who it is not.”

  “I do not gather your meaning, sir.”

  “Well, I know it is neither Henry Bertram nor his associates to date.”

  “How did you come to this conclusion, sir?”

  “I kept the bullet casings from when I received my own wound and attempted to match them to the ones found in your flowerbeds under the windowsill. They do not match at all.”

  “Who then, Mr. Holmes?!” I cried in anguish. “We made only a modest living, and Rupert to my knowledge never hurt a soul in his life. Who would do this, except a man who would kill my husband knowing I would come to you for aid?”

  For the first time in his life, Mr. Holmes was struck dumb. He then said, very quietly, “Your employment with me would not be enough of a motive to kill your husband, Martha.”

  “Then it is lost,” I said, rising. “My husband as well as his case. Should you wish to attend the funeral, it shall be on the hills near my home in two days time. Until then, adieu, gentlemen.” As I closed the door, anger and despair rose within me, for I felt that no rest would come until the case was solved, with or without Sherlock Holmes.

  The next two days passed quickly, and before long Rupert was on the hill to rest there forever. After the mourners had given their condolences and all services had been rendered, I stood alone near his graveside until Mr. Holmes approached. He stood in silence until I spoke. “What might I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Where will you go?” he asked.

  “I do not know. My parents are dead, and now my husband also. I am alone in this bleak world, sir.”

  I shook my head in despair. Silence followed, and I took a small dagger from my apron. In my anguish I had run to a vendor for the most lethal weapon my meager means could buy, and I now held it in my hand. “There is nothing left for me to do,” I said at last, “but to join them.” I lifted the knife and tilted my head back, but before the blade could touch my breast, Mr. Holmes had it out of my hands.

  “Stop!” he shouted, “Do not throw your life away in such grief!”

  “My only love is dead…what have I to live for?”

  “The world needs you, Martha.”

  “I have nothing left to give.”

  Mr. Holmes looked down upon me sadly. “Is there nothing I might say to you to keep you from so rash an act?”

  I shook my head and endeavored to grab the dagger. He raised his fist out of reach and said, “We will find your husband’s murderer—I promised you that before and do so again. Can you find it within yourself to trust me now, Mrs. Hudson, as I did you on that first day you came into my employment? Please let me be of service to you now, instead of this terrible alternative.”

  Defeated at last by misery and exhaustion, my hand dropped and I covered my face. I began to sob heartily; Mr. Holmes embraced me, and in this small way shared in my grief. He and Dr. Watson escorted me again to Baker Street, where we started the case afresh.

  “Martha, did you know anyone intimately before your husband?”

  At first I shook my head, but then remembered a face from long ago, and remembered his expression at my wedding.

  “There was one man, John Guthrie. But that was several years before I met Rupert.”

  “What was he like?”

  “We thought we were in love once. Generally he was very kind, but—”

  I paused and shivered. Mr. Holmes’s brows knitted, and I knew he wished me to continue. I inhaled deeply and did so. “He had a very violent temper, and would often jump to false conclusions. His jealousy could last for weeks, even if his accusations had no foundation.”

  Mr. Holmes sat in deep concentration. “Did he ever do violence against you?”

  I sighed and felt suddenly anxious. “Twice. On the second pass, we parted. He came to my home trying to apologize, but I knew then, that what he wished for him and I could never be. My parents and I relocated to Charing Cross a few months later.”

  Mr. Holmes stood up, wrote a note, and sent for a messenger boy. “Mrs. Hudson,” he asked, “if I invited Mr. Guthrie here, would you be able to see him one last time? I believe he has a confession to make.”

  Within the hour John Guthrie, now much changed, walked through the door. His dark hair had grown long, his clothes disheveled and dirty. He swaggered and swayed as if drunken, though his keen black eyes focused long and well upon me. Mr. Holmes remained at ease, unaffected by John’s entrance. I stayed with Dr. Watson near the door.

  “Mr. Guthrie,” said Mr. Holmes nonchalantly. “Please, do sit down.” John did so, staining the upholstery and the entire room with his presence.

  “What do you want with me?” he said roughly.

  “I only wish for you to answer a fe
w questions for me. Do you know this woman?” Mr. Holmes pointed to me.

  “Yes—we know each other well.”

  Mr. Holmes went on as though nothing had occurred, though I could sense he was watching his every move. “Did you know she was recently married?”

  “I heard rumors.” John was becoming nervous, for he was wiping his hands on his trousers. My own anger was rising.

  “And did you know,” continued Mr. Holmes, “that her husband died just two days ago, from gunshot wounds to the back?”

  Guthrie laughed at this, long and hard, which left Dr. Watson and myself aghast. Mr. Holmes’s eyes became cold, his mouth thin and tight. “He is dead, then?” John said, still chuckling. “That suits him. He doesn’t deserve her.”

  My rage was uncontrollable. I strode up to John and struck him hard in the face. “Did you kill my husband, you worthless devil?”

  He only grinned, and then his long arms were about my waist. “I didn’t…but I’m glad someone had the courage to do it.”

  “Unhand me, villain!” I screamed and struck him once more before Mr. Holmes had untangled me from his vice-like grip and grabbed him by the collar. “I hate you, John Guthrie—you are nothing but wickedness to me!”

  “Do not touch her again,” Mr. Holmes said dangerously, shaking him like a limp doll. In his eyes was an anger I had never before seen, nor have I seen it since. “Why did you shed innocent blood?”

  “Get your hands off me!” John shouted, struggling beneath Mr. Holmes’s tight grip. Mr. Holmes pushed him against the wall, gave him a most burning stare, and released him. Guthrie dusted himself off and spoke, shaken. “I didn’t touch the man… I swear it!” He put up his hands as Mr. Holmes gave him a deep, interrogating look. A long silence prevailed; John crossed the room and headed for the door.

  “If I find that you are the man who committed this murder,” whispered Mr. Holmes, “more than the law will find you.”

  The door opened and closed, and there was quiet once more. “What are we going to do?” asked Dr. Watson tentatively.