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

by Liz Hedgecock

  The assistant brought out a tray and one of the girls shook her head. The shopgirl, her shoulders bowed, picked up the tray and turned to slot it back in, and there it was again, the arm jerking forward. While the shopgirl had her back turned, I heard the words ‘I’m sorry, we have to go,’ and they hurried off, arm in arm.

  I was right next to the quickest path out of the store, twenty feet from them. They had to pass me. They were looking ahead, towards the door. Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes sparkling. I felt almost sorry as I stepped out in front of them.

  ‘Give them to me,’ I said. I hadn’t seen which girl had taken the stockings, but the one on the right was trembling a little.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said the girl on the left.

  ‘You heard me,’ I said. ‘Give those stockings to me now, or I’ll raise the alarm.’ I let my gaze flick to the commissionaire, who was a few yards away, and watching with interest.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about —’

  ‘I mean it,’ I rapped out.

  The girl on the right fumbled a bunched-up pair of stockings from her sleeve and slapped them into my palm.

  ‘And the other pair, please,’ I said, nicely, ignoring the hatred in her eyes as she fished in her sleeve.

  ‘I didn’t know she’d done that, honest —’ the girl on the left began.

  ‘Of course you did,’ I snapped. ‘I shall walk you to the door, and if I catch you again it’ll be names, addresses, your parents, and the police. Do you understand?’

  They nodded, gulping.

  ‘Excellent.’ I strolled behind them. ‘Don’t think it’s just me watching out for you,’ I said, as the commissionaire opened the door. ‘I’ll be letting my colleagues know too.’

  They hastened away, still arm in arm, without looking back. I suspected I, and the store, would never see them again.

  ‘I take it you’re the, um, detective,’ said the commissionaire, surveying me.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Good afternoon, Alphonse. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier.’

  ‘Alphonse!’ He wheezed with laughter. ‘Alf will do nicely.’

  I examined the stockings as I returned to the lingerie counter. They were the finest cream knit silk, with embroidered clocks. I owned nothing so extravagant. ‘Here,’ I said to the assistant, laying them on the counter. ‘Watch out for those two girls.’

  The assistant gasped. ‘Oh my heavens! The best we have!’ She looked from the stockings to me, terror in her eyes. ‘You won’t tell Mr Turner, will you?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Just put them back on the tray.’

  I roamed the store for the rest of the afternoon. I caught no more thieves, possibly because it was Monday, and quiet, but I had a growing sense of unease. As I fingered skeins of wool, and compared embroidery scissors, and tried on gloves, the faces of the two girls swam into my mind, first blurred, then becoming more distinct. Not the girls as they had been when they were caught, but when they had been on the point of getting away with it. Flushed, excited, alive. I knew where I had seen that vitality before. In my own looking glass, as I got ready for work. The only real difference between us was that I was on the right side of the law.

  CHAPTER 7

  As was my custom when returning to Baker Street disguised, I rang the doorbell and waited. After the sound of the heavy bolts sliding back, and the grind of the key in the lock, the door opened to reveal Billy.

  ‘Good evening, ma’am,’ he grinned. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Well, I think.’ I stepped in and Billy went through the rigmarole of securing the door. ‘My employer seemed happy.’ I had returned home by a roundabout route, partly in case anyone was looking out for me, but mainly because it would allow me time to think. By the time I turned into Baker Street I had made peace with myself. The thrill I got from my work was merely the satisfaction of a job well done. It was pride in my work, which was laudable, surely. With the matter resolved to my liking, I was restored to equilibrium. ‘Is Mr Holmes in?’

  ‘He is,’ came a voice above me. Sherlock was leaning on the banister. ‘And he is impatient for his dinner.’ The last was delivered with a laugh in his voice.

  I curtseyed to him. ‘I shall make haste, then.’ I mounted the stairs, unpinning my hat as I went.

  Sherlock sat on the bed and watched me remove the hat. ‘How have you managed to return home smarter than when you left, Nell?’ His tone was light, playful, but there was genuine curiosity beneath.

  I smiled at him in the mirror. I had wondered if he would notice. ‘You should have seen me earlier,’ I said, shrugging off my shawl and draping it over the back of my chair. ‘I have a personal dresser, and I have been a fashionable shopper all afternoon.’ I studied my hair, debating whether I should take down the complicated arrangement of curls and pins, or lift the wig off and hope the hairstyle would be preserved. I decided to risk it, but as my hands went to my head, Sherlock sprang up and took them in his own. ‘Let me take it off,’ he said, and gently but firmly, he moved my hands away.

  ‘No, I’ll do it, you’ll disturb the pins —’

  ‘I didn’t mean the wig,’ he murmured into the nape of my neck, as his hands made their way to the buttons of my bodice.

  ‘I thought you were hungry for your dinner,’ I gasped, as the hands worked down.

  The hands paused. ‘You’re right. Please excuse me.’ Sherlock straightened up and walked to the door. He grasped the doorknob and doubled over in silent laughter. ‘Nell, my dear, you need to take lessons in hiding your disappointment.’ Chuckling, he turned the key in the lock. ‘But you are right. I find myself with a voracious appetite, and a tempting hors d’oeuvre for the taking.’

  I stood, and walked towards him. ‘If you talk too much, the dish will grow cold.’

  ***

  When we entered the dining room, very neat and respectable, Dr Watson was already at table, drumming his fingers on the cloth. He looked away as we took our seats.

  ‘Are we late?’ I glanced at the clock on the mantel, which suggested that if we were, it was a matter of minutes.

  ‘A trifle,’ said Dr Watson, rather shortly.

  Presently Billy’s footsteps announced the arrival of dinner. I made a good meal, for the hours of wandering around the department store had piqued my appetite. The gentlemen ate well, too. The sudden peal of the doorbell rang out with startling clarity.

  I raised my eyebrows at Sherlock. ‘I didn’t know you were expecting a caller.’

  ‘I’m not.’ We both looked at Dr Watson, who shrugged. ‘We have one, nevertheless.’ Sherlock put his knife and fork together and stood.

  I rose too. ‘Is the consulting room in order?’

  Sherlock snorted. ‘Hardly.’

  A knock at the door was followed immediately by Billy. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but Mr Poskitt’s here.’

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, smiling. ‘Show him into the drawing room, Billy, and we shall join him shortly.’ I had not seen Mr Poskitt, Mycroft Holmes’s secretary, since my visits to Somerset House to arrange my new identity, but I counted him as a friend.

  ‘I wonder what he wants,’ mused Sherlock.

  ‘Oh, Sherlock.’ I smoothed my hair and took his arm. ‘Is it so impossible that this could be a social call?’

  Sherlock snorted. ‘Unannounced, on a Monday evening? I think not.’

  Dr Watson was on his feet too. ‘I’ll go and fetch my notebook —’

  ‘Don’t bother, Watson,’ said Sherlock, as he opened the door. ‘This will be off the record.’

  ***

  ‘I do apologise for disturbing your dinner,’ Mr Poskitt said as soon as we entered the drawing room. ‘I had thought you would be finished, but —’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Poskitt.’ I smiled at him, to try and put him at ease, but I was disturbed by the change in his appearance. To a casual observer he was the same neat clerkly figure he had always been; his trousers sharply creased, a f
lower in his buttonhole, his immaculate bowler hat on his lap. And yet it was as if a film of ash had spread over his countenance, as he sat perched on the edge of the settee. ‘Billy will bring coffee shortly, or would you prefer tea?’

  Mr Poskitt shook his head; a quick nervous movement. ‘A glass of water, perhaps.’ He darted a look at Dr Watson. ‘May I ask that — I understand that you make a record of Mr Holmes’s cases, but I must request that this meeting goes unminuted.’ My mouth twitched at Mr Poskitt’s use of office language, but any amusement was smothered by my sympathy for his obvious distress.

  ‘How can we help you, Mr Poskitt?’ I asked, once Billy had left the room.

  Mr Poskitt’s eyes darted from one to the other of us, as if unsure where to start. Then they settled on Sherlock. ‘May I ask… You may already know, although I suspect you do not…’ He twisted at the brim of his hat. ‘Mr Holmes, have you spoken with your brother lately?’

  ‘With Mycroft?’ Sherlock seemed puzzled. ‘I can’t say that I have.’ The crease between his eyes deepened. ‘Is something the matter with him?’

  ‘Er, well, not exactly the matter, but…’ Mr Poskitt seemed to be searching his mind for the right phrase. ‘There is something the matter,’ he declared, at last, ‘but not necessarily with Mr Holmes. Though he is affected,’ he added hastily.

  Sherlock moved forward in his chair. ‘Mr Poskitt, you are talking in riddles,’ he said.

  ‘I do apologise,’ said Mr Poskitt, his neck reddening. ‘It is so hard to be precise, when the matter is not.’ He reached for his glass of water and took a sip. ‘If he knew that I had come here —’

  ‘He won’t hear it from us,’ I said. ‘Suppose you tell us about it just as it comes, and we can ask questions when you are finished.’

  Mr Poskitt looked from one to the other of us again, but already his movements were less abrupt. ‘And it stays within this room?’

  ‘Of course,’ Dr Watson and Sherlock said, together.

  Mr Poskitt leaned forward. ‘Information is finding its way out of Whitehall,’ he said, in a low hoarse voice. ‘Valuable information — I am not privy to what it is, I am not senior enough for that, and it is not my department … as you know, I work at Somerset House.’

  I nodded, feeling a little sick. Mr Poskitt, despite his clerkly air and his position as Mycroft Holmes’s secretary, was a senior civil servant in his own right. The fact that he was in the dark underlined the seriousness of the matter.

  ‘Do you know the nature of the information?’ Sherlock muttered, even though the servants were downstairs.

  Mr Poskitt hung his head. ‘It is related to defence and security — and it has been leaked overseas.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Dr Watson. The sudden loudness of his voice was almost as shocking as if he had sworn.

  Mr Poskitt looked utterly woebegone. ‘It is a bad, bad business,’ he muttered.

  ‘How do you know it has gone overseas?’ Sherlock asked. ‘And how is my brother implicated?’

  Mr Poskitt sighed, and crossed one leg over the other. ‘I shall begin with the easier question. You are aware of the current, er, unrest in Egypt?’

  Sherlock smiled a wintry smile. ‘Anyone who reads the papers is aware of it.’

  ‘There was a plan to bring things to a head. We had a force ready to advance from Alexandra to Cairo; but the Egyptians were more than ready for us. Later we received word from a neutral source that the plan had been leaked to the Egyptians. I happened to be in the room when Mr Holmes opened the communication,’ he added hastily. ‘Our source hinted that there was more.’

  ‘So this is pretty high-level stuff, then?’ asked Dr Watson.

  ‘It is. A mere handful of men operate at that level, and Mr Holmes, while junior, is one of them.’

  ‘Is he under suspicion?’ Sherlock’s eyes were like gimlets, though his voice was level.

  Mr Poskitt studied the carpet. ‘Everyone is under suspicion; but some of Mr Holmes’s more … unorthodox methods have been noted. Nothing has been said, but there is an undercurrent, a distinct undercurrent. Mr Holmes usually attends the Wednesday briefing in the Prime Minister’s office, and we received a message that the last one had been cancelled. I discovered later that it had not.’ He chewed his bottom lip. ‘I have not informed Mr Holmes as yet. The atmosphere of suspicion is already having an effect on him. That is why you must not tell anyone I have been here,’ he added, the nervousness returning to his voice. ‘This is too secret to involve the police, and if it were discovered that you, a lone operator and Mr Holmes’s younger brother, were privy to the matter…’ He gulped, and fell silent.

  ‘Mr Poskitt, what would you like me to do?’ Sherlock’s voice was unexpectedly gentle.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Mr Poskitt said miserably. ‘Keep an ear open, use your information networks … I don’t know.’ Suddenly he put his head in his hands, knocking his hat to the floor. ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ Sherlock cried as he paced. ‘To dangle a wonderful juicy case in front of me, and then virtually prohibit me from doing anything in connection with it … it’s inhuman!’

  We were alone in the drawing room. Dr Watson had retired to bed, citing an early start in the morning, but I suspected he wished to be out of the way of Sherlock’s frustration.

  ‘Mr Poskitt needed to share the burden,’ I said, gently. ‘And Mycroft is your brother…’

  ‘I know, I know…’ Sherlock pushed his hair back with both hands. ‘It’s not as if we’re that close,’ he said, stopping suddenly. ‘It isn’t like your family.’ Sherlock had been amazed that I visited my parents and my sister Susan regularly. Then again, they couldn’t visit me at Baker Street, given my ostensible role as housekeeper… Sherlock mumbled something.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear,’ I said, moving to sit beside him.

  Sherlock pushed a hand through his hair, and sighed. Then he gave me a strange, sidelong glance. ‘Were you the clever one in your family, Nell?’

  I thought it over for a moment. ‘I suppose I was.’ Certainly I had been excused various chores on pleading study, which had annoyed Susan no end; but I had made it up to her by helping with her sums.

  Sherlock stretched his long legs out and put his hands behind his head. ‘In our family, it’s Mycroft. My parents’ hopes are pinned on him.’

  ‘Really?’ I found it hard to imagine Sherlock’s quick brain as second to anyone’s; but I had encountered Mycroft’s easy assumption of power, his way of getting to the heart of the matter.

  Sherlock’s eyes slid towards me. ‘You are weighing it up, Nell,’ he remarked.

  ‘Oh, no, not at all —’ I stammered, then caught the twinkle in his eye. ‘I suppose I was thinking it over,’ I admitted, reaching out to smooth a lock of hair which fell over his forehead.

  ‘So you should.’ Sherlock shifted to face me. ‘It amuses me sometimes. Mycroft and I are similar in our intelligence — though he is quicker than me — but while he applies it officially and bureaucratically, I prefer more exciting applications.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I smiled, recalling our various expeditions through the streets of London.

  ‘It takes the pressure off me, too,’ mused Sherlock. ‘My parents would have preferred me to go into a profession. My mother hinted at the Church several times until I told her it was quite impossible — stop laughing, Nell, that’s very rude.’

  ‘You, a vicar!’ I hooted. ‘The Church would fall.’

  ‘I know. It didn’t stop her trying, though.’ Sherlock was silent for a moment. ‘As a younger son, my current position is at least tenable.’

  ‘Your current position?’ I asked, recovering myself.

  ‘Yes. A hopeless dabbler, a dreamer, a dilettante. Mycroft would never be allowed to get away with it.’

  ‘But what about the cases you’ve solved? The crimes you’ve prevented?’ I was utterly mystified.

&nbs
p; The sidelong look again. ‘I don’t mention it at home. It suits me better.’ Sherlock got up and offered me a hand. ‘We should probably follow Dr Watson’s example.’

  I was silent as we climbed the stairs, wondering what a family gathering at Sherlock’s parents’ house would be like, and how Sherlock and Mycroft would behave in that environment.

  ‘Are you working tomorrow, Nell?’ Sherlock’s voice broke into my thoughts, and I started guiltily.

  ‘In the afternoon, yes.’

  ‘Then would you accompany me in the morning? I have a fancy to go back to Wandsworth Prison, and Watson is in surgery.’

  So you’ll have to do, I added to myself. I debated inventing a prior engagement, an urgent errand of some kind… But I would be cutting off my own nose to spite my face. I desperately wanted to know what was going on.

  ‘I should be able to,’ I replied, as noncommittally as I could.

  We reached the landing. ‘What will you do about Mycroft?’

  Sherlock pulled me to him and kissed the top of my head. ‘The best I can, Nell. The best I can.’

  ***

  The cab rattled through the spacious streets of Marylebone at such a pace that I had to hold on to the leather strap to avoid being pitched onto the floor. Then we drove alongside Hyde Park.

  Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the view. He had not told me where we were going; all I knew was that it was not in the direction of Wandsworth Prison.

  The carriage turned into Portland Road, and immediately began to slow. I knew of no-one who lived in this area. Sherlock banged on the roof with his cane. ‘This will do.’

  When I got out I was none the wiser. Sherlock paid the cabman and told him to wait. ‘We shall not be more than fifteen minutes.’ The cabman touched his cap. ‘Take my arm, Nell,’ said Sherlock. ‘You will feel safer that way.’

  I pulled away and looked up at him. ‘Safer?’

  He nodded. ‘You have nothing to fear, I promise.’ He smiled at my expression. ‘Trust me, Nell.’