In Sherlock's Shadow (Mrs Hudson & Sherlock Holmes Book 2)

by Liz Hedgecock

  I shook his hand. ‘A week’s trial.’

  Mr Turner escorted me down the corridor and left me on the shop floor. I surveyed the scene while pretending to examine a display of hats. The store was busy. Women strolled and stood and chatted, in twos and threes, while turning over stockings and trying on gloves. In contrast to the relaxed shoppers, the assistants bustled around, offering reels of ribbon, hurrying to the stock room, urging their customer to try the blue silk. The opportunities for theft were obvious.

  I waited until the assistant I had first encountered was free, and approached her. ‘Yes, madam?’ I was not convinced she recognised me.

  ‘We spoke earlier. I have met with Mr Turner, and I am to start on Monday.’ I felt a little foolish as I said it, but it seemed important to make contact with someone I would be working alongside.

  ‘Right you are, ma’am.’ She seemed unimpressed at the prospect. ‘I’ll look out for you, then, on Monday.’

  ‘About that,’ I said. ‘I might have red hair on Monday. The rest I’m not sure of, yet.’

  She took a step back. ‘Red hair, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes.’ I smiled at her. ‘Till Monday.’

  I strolled off feeling a little more pleased with myself. Admittedly, Inspector Gregson’s tip was not precisely what I had envisaged, but I had secured paid employment, hopefully to become regular, which would supplement Dr Watson’s contributions to the household income. How exciting or dull the work would be, I was as yet uncertain, but it was work. It might lead to more opportunities. And with a pleasant sense of a job well done, I built castles in the air all the way to Baker Street.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sherlock had not returned when I let myself in to 221B Baker Street. I had not expected him to. I busied myself in planning meals for the coming week, since my free time would be compromised for at least that long.

  I took my menu downstairs, where I found Billy peeling potatoes and Martha shelling peas. I had been worried they might not get on, but my fears were unjustified. Billy treated Martha as a much older sister, while Martha regarded Billy with an almost maternal eye. Billy joshed, Martha nagged, and they chatted constantly. I spent less time in the kitchen than I had before Martha’s arrival, partly because I did not need to, but also because their easy relationship stirred a pang of regret in me. Billy and I had been close, in the days before Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson had come to Baker Street. He had looked after me at my most vulnerable, and we had become firm friends, working together to keep the house running. I knew things could not be the same now, and I was glad that those dark days were gone, but that didn’t stop me regretting the increasing remoteness of our relationship.

  They both looked up at my entrance, and waited for me to speak.

  ‘I have taken a job,’ I said, feeling rather foolish, ‘so I have planned next week’s meals early. Martha, will you go through this with me, and see to the orders?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. In here?’

  I looked at the bright fire. ‘Yes, in here.’

  ‘What sort of job is it, ma’am?’ Billy had put his knife down, a puzzled expression on his face.

  I considered how to explain. ‘It is something that Inspector Gregson put my way,’ I said at last. ‘A case of thievery. It might not take long.’

  ‘Ah,’ Billy’s face cleared and he returned to his potato. ‘I thought for a moment —’

  ‘Thought what, Billy?’ The words came out perhaps a little more harshly than I had meant.

  ‘I thought you might mean … a regular job,’ he faltered.

  ‘We shall see,’ I replied. ‘Martha, the menu.’

  Once the menu had been discussed and approved, and the tradespeople’s orders agreed, I went upstairs and opened the wardrobe. My dresses hung in a row on the left-hand side — lilac, navy, grey. Any of them would do; they were all of much the same conservative style, since I had had them for half-mourning, although I had removed the black trim as soon as I decently could. I fingered the lilac cotton. That was the dress I had worn when Sherlock had first noticed me, a day when I was feeling positive about life.

  It was also the dress I had worn on a much darker day, not so long ago.

  I pulled the dove-grey dress from the wardrobe and changed into it. Then I went through to the dressing room, where I kept my own small stock of ‘professional equipment’. If I remembered correctly, the auburn wig was in the third hatbox, on a mannequin head to keep its shape. I lifted the box down. My various shawls were folded in the second drawer of the tallboy. I selected a bright Paisley in red and blue. A small black handbag, low-heeled boots, and simple jewellery completed the outfit.

  Laden down, I returned to the bedroom, put the small heap of accessories on the bed, and sat at the dressing-table. First I pinned my hair tight to my head. A stocking-cap would have been more convenient, but I hated the constant pressure on my scalp. I settled the auburn wig on my head, drawing it into a simple knot at the nape of my neck. Its colour would be eye-catching enough without an elaborate style, and I had a little black hat with a half-veil which would sit well. I opened the top right-hand drawer of the table, drew out my black box, and set to work.

  A few minutes later I pushed my chair back a little and examined myself in the mirror. I had powdered myself quite pale, added a small sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of my nose, and my eyebrows were now reddish-brown. I pinned the hat on, settled the veil, and nodded to myself. For a first day, that would do.

  I gasped as the bedroom door burst open. Sherlock strode in, loosening his necktie. He pulled it off and threw it on the bed, then twitched his silk dressing-gown from its hook.

  ‘How was it?’ I turned towards him on my stool.

  ‘I need to think,’ he snapped. ‘I’m going next door. Get someone to bring up a supper tray, will you.’ The last words were flung over his shoulder as he disappeared into the consulting room, and the sentence was ended with a slam. I doubted he had even seen me.

  I turned back to the mirror. I knew what Sherlock would be doing. He would arrange the cushions in a heap, fetch his tobacco-jar and pipe, and sit cross-legged, puffing away, his mind whirring, until things clicked into place. At first I had thought that the ritual was purely for effect; one of the little tricks he played, quite consciously, to make himself seem more impressive. However, having now seen his rage when disturbed from his reverie, I believed in it absolutely.

  I had better warn the household. I got up and went down to the kitchen. ‘Mr Holmes is thinking in the consulting room,’ I announced. Billy and Martha both started slightly at my change in appearance. ‘He doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘Will he be down to dinner, ma’am?’ asked Martha, her eyes fixed on my hair. While Billy was comparatively used to my occasional disguises, having seen me in various costumes over the past year, Martha had seen me in disguise just once or twice, paired with Sherlock, and usually with considerable notice.

  ‘I doubt it; a supper tray outside the door will suffice.’ I grinned at her stare, smoothing the side of my hair. ‘I shall take it off shortly, Martha; it is for the job. I did not want to delay in telling you about Mr Holmes, so I came straight down.’ I heard a faint creak from above me. ‘Is Dr Watson in?’

  ‘He returned with Mr Holmes, ma’am, just now,’ said Billy.

  ‘I shall go and change.’ I ran upstairs before my voice could betray me. All the time I was taking off my hat and wig, cleaning my face and redoing my hair — even when I climbed the stairs to Dr Watson’s rooms, the phrase He sent for Watson, not you ran through my head. I pushed it down, deep down, before knocking on the sitting-room door.

  ‘Enter!’ said an irritable voice. Dr Watson was in his shirt-sleeves, a large notebook open on the writing desk, his pen poised. He had already filled a page. ‘What is it, Mrs Hudson?’

  ‘I believe you accompanied Mr Holmes today, Dr Watson.’ I tried not to let the words sound accusing.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ He did not put his pe
n down. ‘I am writing up my account.’

  ‘Could you tell me what happened?’

  Dr Watson sighed, looked sadly at his pen, and set it on the blotter. ‘Briefly, I set out for Wandsworth Prison as soon as I received the telegram. The cell appeared undisturbed. There was no clue how Stanley got out, and no evidence of a struggle. Nothing untoward whatsoever. Lestrade and a couple of men are interviewing the prison guards who were on duty at the time. From Wandsworth we travelled to Mrs Stanley at their house in Ealing. She was hysterical, barely coherent, and I had to sedate her for her own good. The parcel Mrs Stanley received, and its contents, are presently being examined by a police surgeon. I expect it will be released to Mr Holmes shortly afterwards. Now, if you will excuse me, Mrs Hudson —’ He looked pointedly at his notebook.

  ‘Of course, Dr Watson.’ I descended the stairs far more slowly than I had ascended, musing. Dr Watson’s bald account was no more than I had expected, but it suggested that this would be the sort of case that Sherlock loved — baffling, opaque, and with an element of horror. I would probably be sleeping alone that night, while Sherlock’s brain ticked and tested in the room next door. Perhaps he would be ready to talk about it in the morning.

  It was odd, I thought, as I unclipped my earrings, that Dr Watson and I were not better friends. We were still Dr Watson and Mrs Hudson to each other, never John and Nell. I had thought that he might mellow in time, and become a little less formal with me, but no. In fact, I suspected that he disapproved of me, which was why I had removed my disguise before visiting his rooms. Admittedly our situation was unconventional, but my suspicion dated from much further back, from when he had opposed Sherlock’s idea that I assist him on cases —

  My mouth dropped open, and the earring clattered on the dressing table.

  Dr Watson was jealous of me.

  And I was jealous of him.

  CHAPTER 6

  By Monday, little had changed. Sherlock had been either out or incommunicado for most of the weekend. The only significant pieces of information he had managed to gather were that the foot sent to Mrs Stanley had been cut from a living person, almost certainly male, and that Mrs Stanley had had no inkling that her husband might disappear. ‘I’d stake my life on it,’ he said on Sunday night. ‘I’ve seen enough of Effie Stanley to know that she’s telling the truth.’

  Given the seriousness of the case, my own news took a back seat; indeed, having made my preparations, I put it out of my mind until late morning on Monday, when I made myself a sandwich and went upstairs to get ready. It was the work of a few minutes, since I had left the wig dressed. I checked myself in the mirror, caught up my gloves, and went to say goodbye to Billy and Martha. It was an unwritten rule that, when leaving the house on business of this kind, Sherlock and I would tell someone where we were going and when we expected to return, and show ourselves in case a description became necessary. It never had, so far, but it made me feel a little safer.

  I was walking across the hallway to the kitchen stairs when the front door swung open. Sherlock and I stared at each other. He looked exhausted. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and he seemed even thinner than usual.

  ‘What are you doing, Nell?’ His brows knitted.

  ‘I am going out,’ I replied. ‘I have work to do for Inspector Gregson.’

  He didn’t move. ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Undercover.’

  ‘Well, obviously.’ He stepped towards me and lifted my chin with the tip of his finger. ‘Where?’

  The question I had hoped he wouldn’t ask. ‘A department store,’ I snapped, lifting my chin still higher and meeting his eyes.

  ‘A department store.’ A little smile played around the corners of his mouth. While that normally made me want to kiss him, today it was having the opposite effect. ‘What, are you going to be a shopgirl?’

  ‘No, I am not. What I shall be is late, if you don’t step aside.’

  He held the door open for me, his eyebrows raised. ‘Or you could come with me and work on the Stanley case, as my assistant…’

  ‘I made a commitment, and I intend to honour it. I should be home by seven.’ I swept through the door and marched off down the street with great purpose. When I dared to turn, some way down the road, Sherlock was still in the doorway, watching.

  I arrived at Debenham and Freebody five minutes early, and the commissionaire at the door touched his cap to me. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am. Are we shopping today?’

  ‘No.’ I smiled. ‘We’re working.’

  The assistant I had spoken to was on the handkerchief counter today; her smooth dark head nodded as an elderly lady in tweed explained what she wanted. I waved on my way to Mr Turner’s office and she gave me a broad grin, which vanished immediately the customer looked up from the tray of handkerchiefs.

  ‘Come!’ Mr Turner barked in response to my knock. I pushed open the door and he stared at me for a second or two before checking his watch and wishing me good afternoon. We exchanged a few pleasantries, but Mr Turner’s eyes kept straying to the door, keen for me to begin.

  ‘Is there anything I should know before I start?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Mr Turner stood, clearly glad that I had taken the hint. ‘You should probably let Alphonse know who you are.’

  ‘Alphonse?’

  ‘Yes, on the door. Oh, and introduce yourself to one of the assistants. Once one of them knows who you are, they all will.’ Mr Turner nodded his head in dismissal. I felt his eyes on my back as I left the office.

  When I emerged onto the shop floor the lady in tweed had made her selection, and the assistant was wrapping them in tissue paper. I waited until the lady had departed with her package, and then walked over.

  ‘It’s a good thing you said about the hair,’ the assistant said, leaning in confidentially. ‘I wouldn’t have clocked you otherwise. Although when you said red, I thought you meant carrots.’

  ‘I don’t think carrots would suit me,’ I said, laughing. ‘Anyway, Mr Turner said I should introduce myself…’ My voice trailed off as I realised this would mean giving my name. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I could have conducted the whole business under an assumed name, and no one would have been any the wiser. A lesson for next time, Nell, I told myself. Then a smile came to my face. ‘You can call me Mrs Hudson. Nell Hudson.’

  The assistant’s round blue eyes became wider still. ‘So that isn’t…?’

  I leaned forward and lowered my voice. ‘That’s the name I go by, here.’

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, her eyes shining. ‘Well, I’m Miss Blanchard in front of customers, and Evie the rest of the time.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Evie.’ Around me the store grew busier, as post-lunch shoppers came in. ‘I had better get started…’ I turned away, but as I did, Evie cleared her throat.

  ‘Mrs … there’s just one thing.’ She looked terribly nervous.

  ‘What is it, Evie?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying…’

  ‘Oh no,’ I muttered, hand moving automatically to check my wig was on straight. I imagined smudged freckles, or a lock of brown hair falling down my back. ‘What is it? Do I need a mirror?’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that,’ Evie soothed. ‘It’s just that —’

  ‘What?’ I mouthed.

  Her words came out in a rush. ‘You’re all businesslike. You look as if you’re here to work, not shop.’

  ‘Oh!’ My relieved smile faded as I saw her point. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Wait a moment.’ Evie waved at two assistants chatting on the haberdashery counter, and the shorter of the two came over. ‘Will you cover me for a few minutes, Gladys? I’m helping Nell out.’ She whispered in Gladys’s ear. Gladys gawped at me and put a hand to her mouth. ‘Come along, Nell.’

  I followed Evie through a side door. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Just to the staff cloakroom,’ said Evie. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Behind
the next door was a white-tiled washroom with a row of pegs by the door. Evie fetched a battered chair and sat me down. ‘Do you mind if I take a few pins out?’

  I could feel her hand hovering over my head. ‘No, that’s all right. So long as my hair stays on.’

  Evie laughed, and took off my hat. I closed my eyes and hoped for the best.

  ‘There,’ she said two minutes later, settling the hat. ‘Just a couple more things. Give me your shawl.’ She disappeared round the corner and returned with a little fur collar which she pinned on with a sparkling brooch. ‘You can borrow this for the afternoon. Oh, and —’ She drew a little jar of salve from her pocket. ‘Pout for me. I’ll only put a bit on.’ I did as I was told. ‘There. Your hat needs a flower, really, but you can look now.’

  I stood up and went to the looking-glass on the wall. Evie followed, grinning, but I only had eyes for me.

  I was something I had never been before in my whole life.

  I was chic.

  ***

  I hummed to myself as I browsed, drifting from section to section, making a slow circuit round the shop. I affected to be absorbed in details of trim and buttons, but under my eyelashes I watched and waited.

  Two girls hurried past, ribbons fluttering. Perhaps they were in a rush, my calm, sensible self thought. But I had already caught a whiff of something … illicit. I couldn’t have said what, exactly; but I put down the button card I was holding and wandered in the direction they had taken. Their heads were together, and I heard the pss-pss of their whispers.

  The pair had stopped at the lingerie counter, towards the front of the shop. The store had quietened and they were examining a selection of silk stockings. One of them asked the assistant a question. She walked to the shelves behind her and scanned them, running her hand down the trays. I was still some distance away, but I saw a quick, convulsive movement from one of them. I strolled forward and paused at a mannequin, affecting to admire her scarf. Now I could get between them and the door.