***
Mr Turner was all smiles at the end of the afternoon. I had spotted a stout, matronly woman heading for the door at a fast waddle, who turned out, when taken to a back room, to have several yards of dress fabric stuffed into her capacious drawers. Alf was sent for a constable, and the woman, now somewhat slimmer, was led away. As she was hustled from the store she turned, and her eyes found mine. She did not look angry. She looked hurt, as if I had betrayed her.
When I went to Mr Turner’s office the fabric was in a heap on the floor, the folds of blue sateen pooling like a small lake. ‘You can have that,’ he said, waving a casual hand.
I stared at the rippling material and tried to calculate its price. Evie would have known immediately. ‘Can’t it be washed and pressed?’
‘It isn’t worth it,’ said Mr Turner. ‘We’ll write it off as wastage. Yours if you want it.’
My eyes were still on the material. The colour would suit me; but I would see the hurt in that woman’s eyes every time I opened my wardrobe. ‘It would suit Miss Blanchard,’ I said, eventually.
Mr Turner snorted. ‘It’s your loss.’
I found Evie on the glove counter, serving a young woman with a child in tow. When I explained she stared at me, mouth open.
I put my hand on hers. ‘I — I hope you’re not offended.’
‘Offended?’ Her voice rang out and drew warning looks from Gladys on the next counter down. She squeezed my hand. ‘I’m — we’re — saving to get married. There’s no money for a new dress, but now…’ Evie sniffed, and blinked rapidly. ‘Oh I’m going to cry. I can’t cry, my face will be a mess!’ She wiped her eyes carefully with her two forefingers.
‘It will need washing…’ I cautioned.
‘As if I care for a little thing like that!’ Evie stepped round the counter and embraced me, taking care not to crush my dress or endanger my hair.
‘I had better go,’ I said, patting her arm. ‘I have things to see to at home. And no, I can’t say any more than that,’ I said to Evie’s mischievous expression.
I hurried along the busy street. I should have been thinking about whether Sherlock would be at home; whether he might have been called back out to Wandsworth; what this morning’s events could mean. But my mind was full of women’s faces; the amusement of the society woman I had caught with the brooch, and the hurt of the woman who had taken the dress material. I had let the rich woman go without censure, while the struggling woman had been arrested, and would probably go to prison. I rubbed my forehead to try and rub her away, but she wouldn’t go. Because I had caught her, Evie would have a wedding dress. Well, that’s a good thing, I thought, as I turned into Baker Street.
And when will you have a wedding dress? I quickened my steps to drown out the spiteful little voice, glancing in shop windows and people-watching to distract myself. It was a lively scene. The street-lamps were lit, the shop-fronts blazed with light to entice people in, and on the street people were laughing and chatting, going home, or stepping out for the evening. Perhaps I could persuade Sherlock to go to a concert —
A cab bowled past me and jerked to a halt. I was nearing home now, and slowed my pace to see if we had a visitor. It was a slim chance; Sherlock had not mentioned any callers, and this part of the street was densely packed with townhouses like our own. Could it be Mr Poskitt, with more information?
The door of the cab was flung open and a tall figure, too tall for Mr Poskitt, jumped down and strode across the street, his open coat streaming behind him. He ran up the steps of 221B, raised his cane, and banged on the door. He kept banging until the door was opened, and pushed his way inside.
What on earth is going on? I hurried past the waiting cab and climbed the steps.
The door had been left open. ‘Where is he? Where is he?’ The man left the drawing room, slamming the door, and made for the dining room.
‘I’m up here.’ Sherlock was leaning on the banister of the first-floor landing, his face utterly calm.
The man turned his face up. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sherlock?’ he shouted. And I knew him. I should have known him before, but I had never seen him anything but calm.
Standing in our hallway, his face scarlet and contorted with utter fury, was Mycroft Holmes.
CHAPTER 11
‘I ought to wring your neck!’ Mycroft bellowed, shaking his fist. ‘How dare you spy on me!’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Sherlock. But I could see a muscle in his neck twitching, and I suspected Mycroft could too.
‘Yes you do, you liar! A liar and a spy! I’ve seen your little toerag hanging about at lunchtime, watching me down the street, waiting for me when I left Whitehall. Do you think I’m stupid?’ Mycroft shook off Billy’s hand.
‘Not at all, Mycroft.’ Sherlock’s face was as pale as his brother’s was red.
‘Who hired you, eh?’ Mycroft snarled. ‘Who was it? Was it Chambers, or Jones? My God, I’ll —’
‘It was neither of those,’ said Sherlock. ‘I can’t say more than that.’
‘What is going on?’ Dr Watson’s voice was followed by the thump of footsteps and he appeared on the landing beside Sherlock, who took no notice of him.
‘Oh yes you can, if I have to beat it out of you!’ Mycroft started up the stairs.
Sherlock held up a thick walking stick. ‘I have taken precautions. Try it, and I’ll knock you down the stairs.’ His eyes flashed silver. He meant every word.
I started forward. ‘Sherlock, don’t —’
‘Stay out of this, Nell,’ he rapped out.
Mycroft stopped, halfway up the stairs, and when he spoke, his tone had an edge of amusement, a satisfaction, that frightened me more than his fury. ‘So like you, Sherlock, to resort to the physical. I expect that, because you can’t outsmart me, can you?’ His lip curled in a sneer. ‘I didn’t expect my own brother to be a turncoat, though. You really have outdone yourself this time. But two can play at that game. You can tell your employer that I won’t play ball. I’ll work the way I always have.’ Mycroft’s knuckles were white on the banister. He turned abruptly and descended the stairs, and I moved aside to let him through.
‘One more thing!’ Mycroft shouted, raising his stick so suddenly that I gasped and drew back. ‘Call your tramp off. If I see him, or even suspect that I’m being followed, I’ll make sure Scotland Yard never knock on your door again.’ He wrenched the front door open and strode across the road, almost colliding with a man on a bicycle, before climbing into his cab. The door slammed, and the cab drove off.
The soft click as Billy closed the door was the only sound for some time. The silence was broken by muffled sobbing from downstairs. Martha must have heard everything.
Sherlock moved away from the banister and a door closed, smartly. From the direction of Dr Watson’s gaze, it was the consulting room.
Billy reached up, almost timidly, slid the bolts home, and turned the key in the lock. ‘I’ll — I’ll see about dinner,’ he stammered, and fled down the kitchen steps.
When I looked up to the landing, Dr Watson had vanished.
***
No one ate much at dinner. Sherlock had remained in the consulting room the whole time, and came down fifteen minutes late. He eyed the plate, pushed it away, and went upstairs.
I had spent the time before dinner in the bathroom; it was the only place I could think of where I could be alone. I lifted off the brown wig and began to unpin my hair, and suddenly tears were streaming down my face. My throat hurt from the effort not to cry out loud. I remembered Evie’s careful tears — my face will be a mess — and that made it worse. When the dinner bell rang I washed my face and twisted up my hair, not bothering to look in the mirror. I knew that my eyes were red and my face was blotchy, and I did not care.
Dr Watson ate in his usual steady manner, the clatter of his knife and fork loud in the silence, until we heard Sherlock’s quick, light steps descending. He paused, fork in the air, n
ot even chewing, while the door bolts snicked and the key rattled. The front door closed, and Dr Watson laid down his knife and fork on the half-full plate. ‘I have had enough,’ he said, pushing his chair back. ‘I shall go and read in my room. Good night, Mrs Hudson.’
The house felt like a tomb. Seconds were measured out by the drip of the clock. I wished I could turn back time, could reverse what had happened — no, reverse Sherlock’s plan to set Wiggins to follow his brother. But it was too late.
The chime of the clock striking eight made my heart jump in my chest, and I thought of Sherlock, out there, alone. Why had he left the house? My mind raced through the possibilities. He might have gone to warn Wiggins off — but what if he had decided to go after Mycroft, or worse, shadow him himself? He had gone out without speaking to anyone. He could be anywhere, dressed as anyone. I knew Sherlock’s stubbornness. But if Mycroft saw him —
I ran upstairs to the consulting room, which had the best view over the street, and drew the heavy velvet curtain aside. I didn’t know what I expected to see as I surveyed the lamplit street, but Sherlock was not in the buttoned-up figures hurrying by, or the strolling couples.
My mouth twisted as I recalled a day when I had looked out for Sherlock, not a year ago, before I had even known who he was or what he would mean to me. I saw a young man striding along, full of possibilities. And here I was again, my heart in my mouth, waiting to see if he would come home safe.
My watching would not bring him home. It would achieve nothing. I closed the curtains and went to the bedroom.
I could not sleep, of course. My brain flipped through the events of the day like a never-ending catalogue of cards. The visit to the rookery. Sherlock’s triumph at the prison. The lady with the brooch. Evie’s tears. The woman’s hurt eyes as she was bundled off. Mycroft’s rage. Doors slammed over and over in my head and I found myself shaking, shaking and weeping, hiding under the bedsheets, trying not to disturb the silent house.
A creak startled me awake and I screamed, then struggled as a hand clamped down on my mouth. ‘For God’s sake, Nell!’ Sherlock hissed. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
I shoved his arm away. Sherlock stood above me, illuminated by the gas-light I had left turned low. He appeared unharmed. ‘Where have you been?’ I whispered.
‘I went to pull Wiggins off the case.’ He sat on the bed and pulled off his tie, throwing it over the back of a chair.
I pulled myself to a sitting position. ‘I was worried.’
‘Nell, it isn’t ten o’clock. I’d have been quicker, but I decided to walk back.’
‘I thought you might have —’
‘Might have what?’ He twisted to face me, his eyes searching my face.
I couldn’t hold his gaze. I looked down at my hands twisting in my lap. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you think I would go after Mycroft?’ He snorted. ‘I’m not stupid.’ He unhooked his braces and stood up. ‘You know what, Nell? You should stop thinking, if this is the result.’
‘When I want your opinion, I’ll ask,’ I snapped, turning away and flinging my head on the pillow. As a response, it was much milder than my thoughts.
I waited for an apology, for an acknowledgement that I had been right to worry.
The connecting door to the consulting room clicked.
***
I was woken by a gentle tap at the door. ‘Morning tea,’ Martha called, with a question in her voice.
‘Leave it outside, please.’ I looked over my shoulder at Sherlock, still wearing his shirt, curled in a ball on the edge of the mattress. When had he come to bed? Fingers of light were creeping round the sides of the curtain. The servants must have left us to sleep late. How much had they heard?
I shook my head to clear it. Today would be better. I would have a cup of tea, dress, go downstairs, and lose myself in household tasks before getting ready for work. I would instruct Evie to make me especially chic today. That would cheer me up.
I fetched the tea tray and looked about me. There was nowhere to set it down; the dressing table and the nightstands were cluttered. The door to the consulting room was ajar, though. I nudged it open and set the tray on a side table.
The room was in a state of disarray. Books pulled from the shelves lay on the floor, some still open, next to a pile of cushions. The tobacco jar was on the floor too, next to a small morocco case I didn’t recognise. I picked it up and pressed the catch.
A hypodermic syringe.
I closed the case and set it down as if it were red hot. Then I stood up and peered round the door. Sherlock seemed to be asleep still. I cleared a space on the dressing table, fetched the tea tray, and pushed the connecting door to. I sat down and poured myself a cup of tea; and as I sipped, I looked in the mirror at myself and at Sherlock, curled up in his shirt.
Inside, though, I was screaming.
CHAPTER 12
I selected a dress at random, concerned less for appearance than speed. I wanted to be out of that room, away from Sherlock. I wanted to busy myself with mundanities.
‘That’s a nice dress, ma’am,’ Martha said as I entered the kitchen.
‘Is it?’ I looked down at myself. Of all the dresses I had, I had chosen the lilac one. That dress.
‘Would you like breakfast?’ Martha gestured to the oven. ‘Dr Watson’s had his long since, but I kept the dishes warm for you. Bacon, sausages. I could fry you an egg?’
I fought back queasiness. ‘Just a piece of toast, thank you. I’ll eat it here.’
‘Mr Holmes not stirring yet?’ Martha asked, as I sat down at the kitchen table.
I shook my head.
‘Ma’am…’ Martha pulled out a chair and sat opposite me. ‘It isn’t my place to ask, but — are you quite all right? I heard — noises in the night.’
I almost laughed as I thought of Mycroft’s visit, Sherlock’s return, and the hypodermic syringe lurking upstairs. ‘No, I’m not “all right”. Given what happened yesterday evening, it’s hardly surprising. A good set of household chores will take my mind from it all, I’m sure.’
‘Oh.’ Martha got up, speared a piece of bread on a toasting fork, and held it to the fire. ‘Everything’s done, really. You did the meal plans, ma’am, remember, and Billy’s just gone to sort out the butcher’s order.’
How typical that when I wanted domestic diversion, none was available. ‘I shall go for a walk, then.’ Wednesday was usually my day to visit Lottie, but I did not trust myself to get through even a routine call without weeping.
‘That’s a good idea, ma’am.’ Martha turned the bread on the fork. I remembered the sobs coming from the kitchen yesterday evening, and wondered what she and Billy had said to each other in the privacy of their sitting room. I did not like to think what they might have discussed.
I was finishing my toast when footsteps sounded on the kitchen stairs. ‘I am going out,’ Sherlock said, as he appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh —’ He looked at me, eyebrows raised. ‘I did not expect to find you here.’ He was smartly dressed, but there were shadows under his eyes.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked, putting down the remains of my toast.
‘Back to Wandsworth, first. I am likely to be out all day.’
‘But your breakfast, sir —’ Martha gestured helplessly at the oven.
‘I’m not hungry.’ He came round the table and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘Have fun at work, Nell.’ And he was gone.
I went upstairs for a hat and shawl. The consulting room was still a mess, but the morocco case had disappeared. I wondered if it might be hidden in the room somewhere, but I would not stoop so low as to rummage through Sherlock’s equipment.
I left the house and walked briskly to the park. Regent’s Park always put me in a good humour. The people, the ducks, the changing seasons… Today, though, it did not work. As I paced the paths, I was preoccupied by a morocco case that I had seen not two hours before. I needed to know. And Dr Watson flashed into my mind. He was at wo
rk now, at Barts Hospital, an hour’s walk away; but a short trip by omnibus. I almost ran to the stop and, by good fortune, squeezed onto a packed ’bus a few minutes later.
The omnibus creaked and swayed down the long, straight road, but I was not lulled by the rhythmic motion. I saw nothing of the buildings or the people; I lived entirely inside my head until the cry of ‘Smithfield and St Bart’s’ rang out. I got up from my seat and hurried after the women disembarking with their shopping baskets. It was only when I looked up at the imposing stone building that I realised I had not a clue how I would find Dr Watson.
The hospital vestibule was a mass of motion. Doctors, nurses and orderlies buzzed to and fro purposefully, weaving round the slow peregrinations of — were they visitors, or patients?
‘Yes, ma’am?’ A clerk hailed me from a high desk.
I walked slowly towards him, racking my brains for how to begin. ‘I need to see Dr Watson, please.’
The clerk looked me up and down. ‘Is it about a patient?’ he asked, briskly, pen poised.
‘In a manner of speaking…’ Then it dawned on me, the thing that I knew would fetch him. ‘I have an urgent message from Mr Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Oh!’ The clerk beckoned an underling, then muttered into his ear. The underling stared at me and hurried off, flinging the words ‘Follow me, ma’am’ over his shoulder. I did as I was told and we passed across the vestibule, through a small lobby and a room full of more clerks with ledgers, to a room with Committee on the door plaque. The underling held the door open for me. ‘Do take a seat, ma’am, I shall find Dr Watson and tell him you are here.’
He closed the door reverently and I took in the leather-topped table, the high-backed chairs upholstered to match, the tall mahogany bookshelves filled with bound volumes of the Hospital Gazette. The windows gave on to a small chapel. It was not what I had expected.
In Sherlock's Shadow (Mrs Hudson & Sherlock Holmes Book 2) Page 6
