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

by Liz Hedgecock

  I could not see any alternative but to wait in the cab; and I did not want to seem timid. I took Sherlock’s arm and pulled mine tight against it, steeling myself not to tremble.

  We crossed the road and turned down a narrower one; and immediately I saw why Sherlock had felt the need to prepare me.

  In front of me was a rookery. The houses were crammed together, with barely a window intact, and the light grew dimmer the further we advanced. Men lounged in doorways, hands in pockets, watching us with insolent smiles. You are trespassing, they seemed to say. Ragged children played in the gutters, but drew back as we approached, as if we might hurt them. The smell was indescribable.

  ‘Why are we here?’ I whispered, clutching Sherlock’s arm, my resolve to appear composed entirely gone.

  Sherlock turned left. ‘Here we are,’ he said.

  It was the heart of the slum. You could feel its density; the bodies packed together in the rooms, a shivering, quaking mass of poverty. Two men were fighting in the middle of the street, cheered on by a crowd of men, women and children, and more watchers hung out of the windows, yelling encouragement. ‘I thought this had been cleared,’ I said weakly.

  ‘They tried,’ said Sherlock. ‘Welcome to Notting Dale, Nell. Excuse me a moment.’ He put his fingers in his mouth, and sounded a piercing three-note whistle.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I cried, backing away. Several of the crowd stared; but on seeing that we were not the police, they turned back to their sport with no more than a few curses flung our way.

  ‘Here he comes.’ And Sherlock raised his hand in greeting to a filthy youth who was elbowing his way through the crowd towards us. One spectator, enraged at the disturbance, clouted the youth on the back of the head as he struggled past; but the youth gave no sign that he had even felt it. He seemed familiar, somehow — but where would I have seen him before?

  The youth grinned as he approached us, showing a mouthful of jagged teeth. ‘I won’t offer to shake yer ’and, Mr ’Olmes.‘ He winked at me. ’If I’d known you wus bringing a lady, I’d have cleaned up a bit.’

  Then it came to me; a stream of ragged children running through the kitchen, shouting for Sherlock, refusing to give way to Billy or to me. That had been in the Jefferson Hope case; the case that Dr Watson was writing up for publication. ‘Is it — Wiggins?’ I asked.

  ‘It is!’ he beamed. ‘She remembers me!’ He clutched his heart and assumed a lovestruck expression.

  ‘No time for all that, Wiggins,’ grinned Sherlock. ‘I have work for you.’

  Wiggins sobered up immediately. ‘Yessir. Usual rate?’

  ‘Usual rate.’ Sherlock reached into his pocket and spun half a crown in the air. Wiggins’s eyes followed its path. ‘A small advance now, and a shilling a day thereafter.’

  ‘For wot?’ said Wiggins, holding out his grimy palm.

  ‘A long shot,’ said Sherlock, depositing the coin into Wiggins’s hand. ‘Are you acquainted with Whitehall, Wiggins?’

  Wiggins scratched a spot on his head for several seconds. ‘I know where it is,’ he said, at length. ‘I can’t say as I’ve been invited in, though.’

  ‘That will do. Are you acquainted with my brother?’

  Wiggins grinned. ‘I haven’t been formally interduced, but I knows him by sight. Tall, broad feller with a big ’ead.’

  ‘The very man.’ Sherlock smiled. ‘I want you to follow my brother, Wiggins. What time he leaves his rooms, whether he goes straight to work, if he leaves work with anyone… He might go to Somerset House, too, but if I know my brother he will want to be where things are happening. Watch him until further notice, Wiggins, and report to me at Baker Street if you observe anything which you think I would find — interesting.’

  ‘Right you are, Mr ’Olmes.’ Wiggins touched his non-existent cap in a half-salute. ‘I’ll do me best.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Wiggins.’ Sherlock consulted his watch, and I saw several eyes drawn to the gleam of gold. ‘I must hurry on to another case.’

  We picked our way down the alley, but I did not trust myself to speak till we were safely in the cab with the doors bolted. ‘Sherlock, why have you —’

  ‘Wandsworth Prison, please, and quickly,’ Sherlock shouted up to the box. As we rattled off again he turned to me. ‘When I told you to trust me, Nell, this was partly what I meant.’

  ‘But what is the point of —’

  Sherlock put a finger to his lips and looked out of the window. ‘It is a long ride to Wandsworth,’ he observed.

  I looked out of the other window.

  Sherlock nudged me. ‘If I were to call it a hunch, Nell, rather than a pointless exercise or a wild-goose chase — which is what your shoulders are conveying most eloquently as your opinion — would that help?’

  I sighed. ‘Perhaps.’

  Sherlock reached for my hand and stroked it. ‘Then let us call it a hunch.’

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘Completely against policy,’ grumbled the warden under his breath as he led us down the corridor, his ring of keys jingling at his waist. ‘Turning up with not so much as a police letter —’

  ‘Were you on duty when the prisoner Stanley was taken?’ Holmes asked. There was an edge beneath the careless manner in which the question had been asked.

  ‘I was not,’ retorted the warden, his face growing even more thunderous. ‘You’ve got ten minutes, that’s yer lot.’ He wrenched at his ring of keys, selected one apparently at random, and unlocked a heavy steel door. ‘I’ll be outside, wasting time while you and your secretary mess about.’ He waved us in and then slammed the door, though mercifully he stopped short at locking it.

  I watched Sherlock move around the cell. I had not been inside a prison before, and the pleasant drive through the countryside south of London had not prepared me for the grim reality of this bare cell. If anything, I was pleased that we would not be allowed to remain long.

  Sherlock went to the small window and examined the bars with a magnifying glass. ‘No give there…’ he said, tugging at them in turn. ‘Old, rusted screws which haven’t been disturbed…’

  ‘Didn’t you look at them when you came before?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Sherlock replied, still looking at them. He tore his gaze away and ran his hands up and down the brickwork. ‘I feel I am clutching at straws.’

  I walked over to the plain iron bed, which had a hard bolster at its head and a rough grey blanket folded in a neat square at the bottom. Underneath it was a chamber pot.

  ‘That isn’t the bed Stanley slept in,’ said Sherlock. ‘They broke that one to pieces, hunting for a key. Although how he’d have got hold of one —’ He smacked the wall with the flat of his hand. ‘It can’t be an inside job! But he can’t have got out any other way…’

  There was nothing else in the cell but a small square table, on which sat a Bible, and a deal chair. I sat on the chair and tried to imagine what it would be like to be confined in such a place, perhaps for years… What had Emmett Stanley’s sentence been?

  ‘This is one of the nicer prisons, you know,’ said Sherlock. I shuddered.

  ‘Time’s up!’ The door opened and the warden jerked a thumb over his shoulder at us.

  ‘That wasn’t ten minutes.’ It was Sherlock’s turn to mutter under his breath, and I saw the warden smirk at Sherlock’s back as he passed.

  I smiled at the warden, hoping he wouldn’t detect my real feelings. ‘I’m terribly sorry we’ve put you to so much trouble, Mr —’

  The warden’s face registered his surprise. ‘Sage. Warden Sage.’

  ‘Mr Sage.’ I fell into step beside him. ‘It must be very hard work, running a prison.’

  His craggy face split into a grin. ‘Oh, it’s not so bad, providing they does what they’re told and toes the line. This one, till he went and vanished, he was a model prisoner. Up when he was told, never threw his food about like some of ’em…’ The warden appeared to be turning something over in his mind. ‘I
t’s funny. When he arrived, I thought he was going to be trouble. He comes through the door in his flash suit. Shiny shoes, posh necktie, gold jewellery. But when we took it all off him, and put him in a prison uniform, you wouldn’t have looked at him twice, and he knew it. Docile, he was. Kept himself to himself.’ He nodded in approval.

  ‘What did he look like?’ I asked.

  Mr Sage considered. ‘Nothing special. Middle height, dark hair — bit of grey at the sides. Quite a slight man. Mind, everyone gets thinner in here.’ He wheezed with laughter. ‘We had him on mat-making, he was too small to have much of a chance on the treadwheel.’

  A gasp from behind us. ‘My watch!’ exclaimed Sherlock. ‘I must have left it in the cell!’

  The warden sighed. ‘And I suppose you want to go back for it?’

  Sherlock looked contrite. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Sage. It was a present from my mother,’ he added, as Mr Sage turned to march us back.

  Mr Sage huffed, fumbling for his ring of keys. Sherlock was alongside him, watching Mr Sage select the key and insert it into the lock.

  ‘Go on,’ snapped the warden. But Sherlock ran to the table and turned it over, kneeling and running his hands across the wood.

  ‘What the —!’ Mr Sage charged forward, then stopped at the look of triumph on Sherlock’s face.

  ‘I have it,’ he said, simply, and beckoned us to the table. He put his finger to a knot-hole in the wood, then slid it in, up to the knuckle. ‘Do you see, Mr Sage?’

  ‘It’s a hole,’ said Mr Sage, too confused to be angry. ‘A small knot-hole.’

  ‘A small knot-hole,’ repeated Sherlock, getting up and brushing down his trouser-knees. ‘A hole large enough to accommodate a slender finger, and also, a key.’ He held his forefinger out and Mr Sage, comprehension dawning, held the key to the cell next to it.

  Then his face clouded again. ‘That’s a bit of it,’ he cried. ‘But how did he get the key, and how did he get out?’

  ‘He didn’t,’ said Sherlock. ‘We need to see the governor immediately.’

  ***

  ‘Tell me your theory, Mr Holmes,’ smiled Mr Jonas, the prison governor, with the air of someone granting an indulgence.

  ‘I shall.’ Sherlock drew his chair closer to Mr Jonas’s desk. ‘And I think that when I have finished, you will agree that this is more than a theory.’

  The governor sat back in his chair, fingers steepled.

  ‘You run a tight ship, Mr Jonas. I took the liberty of discussing the prison routine with Mr Sage, and I am full of admiration.’

  Mr Jonas inclined his head.

  ‘Exercise in the yard for an hour, supper at half past five, two hours’ work, an hour for reading and writing, and then bed. Wonderful.’

  Mr Jonas nodded, but his brow showed the beginnings of a furrow.

  ‘Emmett Stanley went into the yard at half past four for exercise. The yard is dark as the sun is setting, but that doesn’t matter, because of the high wall. He walks by himself, as he always does, and he is silent, as per the regulations. Someone runs up to him and hisses in his ear to come and see, perhaps taking him by the arm. He is guided to a spot away from the building, knocked out, probably, for quiet’s sake, and left in the dark while the prisoners are called in.’

  ‘But we count them in!’ exclaimed Mr Jonas.

  ‘Yes, and you have the right number; a slight dark man in prison garb is in the line. He knows the routine; he knows that Emmett Stanley gives no trouble, and will be passed over. He gets his food, his gruel and bread, eats alone, and falls into line with the others to be marched back to work. As Stanley is a model prisoner he has the privilege of working in his own cell, rather than being put to the more physical, communal labour of the treadwheel. How much work he does I cannot say; any warder who slid open the observation window of Stanley’s cell would see a slight dark man, his back turned, apparently engaged in mat-making. He then reads his Bible until lights out at nine, lays down in bed, and waits. When he is sure that no warder is near, he rises, takes the key from its hiding place in the table — he has secreted it there previously, stuck with the wax I felt under my fingernail — and lets himself out.’

  ‘I think we would notice a prisoner sauntering about after lights out,’ said Mr Jonas, a forced smile on his face.

  ‘You would,’ said Sherlock, his eyes on the governor’s face. ‘Prison uniform is not a snug fit. A warden’s uniform could be concealed beneath. Who pays any attention to a patrolling warden, in a dimly-lit corridor, when the prisoners are quiet?’

  The governor’s Adam’s apple bobbed once, and the motion seemed to hurt him.

  ‘Check your list of wardens for those who match Emmett Stanley’s description,’ Sherlock said, rising. ‘I expect you will find a patch of flattened grass in a far corner of the yard. The warder may have tried to disguise the drag marks from when his accomplices removed Mr Stanley in the night; but if he lay unconscious for several hours, the imprint may still be there.’ Sherlock pulled his watch from a trouser pocket and glanced at it, winking at Mr Sage as he did so. ‘I’ll see myself out; we have an urgent appointment to keep.’ I rose and picked up my bag.

  ‘But — but — where is Mr Stanley?’ stammered Mr Jonas. ‘Is he alive, or dead?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Sherlock, opening the office door. ‘I wish I knew.’

  CHAPTER 10

  On returning to Baker Street I had barely five minutes to don a wig and catch up pince-nez and a hat before running back out to the waiting cab. Lunch was out of the question; but I did not care about lunch. My mind was full of the morning’s events; the meeting with Wiggins, and Sherlock’s deduction at Wandsworth Prison. I would have walked straight past Evie if she hadn’t waved at me.

  ‘That’s not much different from your real hair, is it?’ she said. Her expression was neutral, but she sounded disappointed.

  ‘I didn’t have time to do much today,’ I said, ‘I’ve been — busy this morning.’

  Evie beamed, her faith in me restored. ‘I’ll look after you,’ she said. ‘Those flowers in your hat are out of season, you know.’

  ‘Are they?’ I touched the pink roses with my fingertip.

  ‘It’s all camellias now.’ Evie pointed at the multicoloured display of silk flowers nearby, and I could see that she was right. ‘You go on to the washroom, and I’ll join you in a minute.’

  ‘I wish I could hire you as a maid, Evie,’ I joked as she ministered to me, taking advantage of her mouthful of hairpins. ‘I’d be the best-dressed woman in London.’

  Evie didn’t speak until she had finished my hair and settled my newly-trimmed hat to her satisfaction. ‘I don’t know what your husband would say though, Mrs Hudson,’ she smiled. ‘I’d probably lead you into all sorts of extravagances.’

  ‘Maybe you can help with my trousseau,’ I said without thinking, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, I then clapped a hand to my mouth.

  Evie looked at me in the mirror, and then walked round to face me. ‘So you’re not married?’ Her eyes were wide. ‘You seem married.’

  My face was on fire. ‘It’s, well, it’s…’ I didn’t want to lie to my friend, but how could I explain? ‘It’s complicated,’ I said lamely.

  Evie whistled, softly. ‘You are a dark horse,’ she grinned. ‘Whatever next.’ And she twitched the pince-nez off my nose. ‘You can look through them as much as you like, but don’t keep them on. It isn’t fashionable.’ I thanked her and went to make my report to Mr Turner, in the certain knowledge that Evie had let me off lightly.

  As I patrolled the store, poking my pince-nez into this and that, a parallel image of the warden patrolling at Wandsworth flashed into my mind. I marvelled at his nerve, his confidence. To lure a prisoner into a trap, take his place, and then switch again and escape, under the noses of the other wardens… I wondered if the man who had done it was still at large, or whether they had tracked him down yet.

  I roamed the store, watching the shoppers at play.
There were a few women, usually in pairs for moral support, who were plainly-dressed and clearly here for a treat. That was the category I would have placed myself in, particularly given our current financial situation. Most of the women, though, were elegant, drifting through the shop as if they were walking through the rooms of their own house. One of them, nose in the air, was trying on paste jewellery — a string of pearls, a brooch, a pair of pearl drop earrings. She took the earrings off. ‘Pearl studs would be better, really,’ she remarked offhandedly to the assistant, who nodded eagerly, and turned to pull another tray of earrings from the shelf. She was probably hoping for a tip — even a thrupenny bit would make a big difference to her day. The woman, a bored expression on her face, fiddled with her scarf. You don’t care about the earrings, I thought, taking in her velvet dress, her fur muff, her embroidered bag. They aren’t expensive enough for you.

  ‘Why do you do it?’ I asked. It had been easy to intercept her as she strolled away; she was in no hurry.

  She stopped and looked at me through half-closed eyes. ‘Do what?’ she said, eventually.

  I let my eyes settle on her scarf. ‘You know what.’

  Her laugh tinkled like the glass drops on a chandelier. ‘How embarrassing.’ She stayed where she was, eyebrows raised, daring me to take action.

  She wasn’t blushing; I was. ‘Give me the brooch, and tell me why you do it, and I’ll say nothing.’ My hand trembled as I held it out.

  She held my gaze with that same amused stare as she unpinned the brooch and laid it in my palm. I looked down at it; a gaudy toy of rhinestones and gold-coloured metal, something a child would love. The woman leaned forward, and her musky perfume enveloped me. ‘It’s fun,’ she whispered, with that same smile in her voice.

  I closed my hand over the brooch. ‘What if you get caught?’

  ‘I would probably be in the papers, and have to go for a rest cure.’ She did not seem displeased as she rearranged her scarf. Then she rummaged in her dainty bag. ‘Here, give this to the girl,’ she said, handing me half a crown. She strolled to the exit, leaving me looking after her, the brooch clutched in my hand. She turned and waved before she disappeared into the street.