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

by Liz Hedgecock

  A few minutes later I heard footsteps and a low conference of voices, and Dr Watson pushed open the door. He was wearing a white hospital coat and frowning, and the frown deepened as he registered my presence. ‘That will be all, Hoskins,’ he said, and closed the door with finality. ‘I did not expect you, Mrs Hudson. Am I needed?’ He did not sit down.

  ‘Yes,’ I bit my lip. ‘I — found something in Mr Holmes’s consulting room.’

  ‘You found something? Mrs Hudson, I am a busy man. I do not have time for —’

  ‘I found a hypodermic syringe.’

  ‘Oh.’ A look of almost-helplessness wiped the frown from Dr Watson’s face. He pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. ‘I see.’ His eyes measured me. ‘You didn’t know…’

  ‘I take it you did, then.’ I ran my hand over the smooth table top.

  Dr Watson bowed his head. ‘He hadn’t touched it for some time. I hoped he had broken the habit,’ he muttered, almost to himself.

  Fear gripped my heart. ‘The habit? What habit?’

  Dr Watson sighed. ‘Occasionally morphine. More frequently, cocaine.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ I felt nauseous. ‘He injects it?’

  ‘I am afraid so.’ Dr Watson shot me a furtive glance. ‘He doesn’t know you found the syringe, does he?’

  I shook my head. ‘I put it back where I found it. I haven’t said anything.’

  ‘Good. If he thought… He is a proud man. He tried to hide it from me, too.’ It was the most frank, the most open Dr Watson had ever been with me. ‘But it doesn’t make sense…’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He smiled wanly. ‘As you know, it is hard to live with a detective and not catch the habit. Addiction is not my study, but until now Holmes has only used cocaine as an escape from boredom. A stimulant for those quiet times between cases; but he’s busy with the Stanley case. This is completely out of character. When did you find the syringe?’ The question was almost stern.

  ‘This morning. He was still asleep. It was in a case, next to some books on the consulting-room floor. I only opened the case because I did not know what it was.’ Even now, I hated the thought that Dr Watson might think I had pried. ‘And when I went upstairs later, the case had disappeared.’

  ‘So, last night then…’ Dr Watson passed a hand over his brow. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘What is it?’ I implored.

  Dr Watson pinched the bridge of his nose, and when his eyes met mine they were full of woe. ‘It must have been after the scene with Mycroft. It’s the only explanation.’ I waited for the blow to fall. ‘He wasn’t using cocaine as a stimulus. He was using it to escape from reality.’ He shook his head. ‘I can talk to him, try to reason with him, but —’ He looked down at the table for a moment. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Are you sure you can manage from here?’

  Dr Watson had escorted me back to the vestibule. I had told myself that I would not cry. I did not; but my throat was a hard knot of pain. I nodded to give myself time before I must speak. ‘Yes,’ I said, and my voice didn’t sound like me.

  ‘On a case today, doctor?’ called the clerk who had dealt with me, grinning.

  ‘No. No case,’ said Dr Watson, sadly. He took my hand. ‘You will let me know, won’t you…’ I nodded again — speaking was impossible — and watched him walk away as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders —

  No. The weight of Sherlock. We both did.

  I caught the return omnibus without difficulty, and arrived back at Baker Street with plenty of time to eat a light meal and dress for work. The thought of food made me feel sick, and the last thing in the world I wanted to do was dress myself up and play detective; but it had to be done. I choked down half a ham sandwich and spent some time in arranging my now dark-brown hair. It was not for vanity’s sake; it was to avoid a session with Evie.

  I might have saved myself the trouble. Evie was waiting for me; she caught my eye the minute I entered the shop, and hurried over as soon as she could decently rid herself of the customer she was serving.

  ‘Oh that material, Nell, it’s simply beautiful!’ She took my arm and marched me through the shop. ‘It’s brand new — there’s nothing a launder and a press won’t mend, anyway. I have such plans for it!’ She continued, sketching frills and shaping and drapery in the air, and she might have been speaking a foreign language for all I knew or cared. Suddenly we jerked to a stop, and I had a distinct feeling that I was supposed to have said something. I had not even noticed our arrival at the cloakroom door.

  ‘Do you think a train is too much?’ Evie looked concerned. ‘You do, don’t you, and you’re too polite to say.’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s your wedding, Evie. You have what you want.’ But the words came out flat and dull. ‘I think my hair will do as it is, you know,’ I gabbled, and the disappointment on Evie’s face deepened.

  ‘I didn’t mean —’ I put my hands over my face, as much to get away from Evie’s expression as to keep in the sobs fighting to rise to the surface. ‘I’m sorry.’ I breathed deeply and slowly, determined not to cry.

  Evie silently stroked my back, and that was it. Up came the anger, the frustration, the resentment, the disappointment, the self-pity — every mean emotion I could feel was out in the open, running down my face.

  I am not sure how long I cried for, but it felt like hours. Evie did not speak until I had cried myself down to the occasional hiccup. ‘Shall I tell Mr Turner you’ve gone home poorly?’ she murmured.

  ‘I need to work.’ My voice cracked as I said it; but it was true. I needed something to distract me from the real world.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Evie, with a sigh.

  Ten minutes later I was presentable, if not quite restored to normal. ‘Is it…’ Evie hesitated. ‘Is it man trouble?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ I tried to smile, but I could tell from Evie’s expression that my attempt had been unsuccessful. I shook my head to indicate that I wished to say no more. ‘We had better get to work, before Mr Turner comes looking for us.’

  ‘Yes.’ But I felt Evie watching me as we returned to the shop floor. She caught my hand as I made to open the door to the main shop. ‘Nell, you would tell me if it was anything … you know.’ Her eyes searched my face for clues.

  ‘Of course I would,’ I lied, and pushed the door open.

  Where would I even begin, I thought, as I trailed round the store, comparing skeins of wool, nodding to the assistants, examining the trimming on a hat. How could I explain to Evie the complicated mess of my life? I surveyed the neat compartmentalised world of the store, every department its own little kingdom, arranged and governed by the will of its despot. The detail of my strange existence would probably impress Evie far less than my vague hints of a secret identity and an unorthodox relationship. Going into particulars would rub the shine right off. I caught sight of myself in a cheval glass and hastily adjusted my expression to a more neutral one before moving on.

  And why are you so upset? I could walk into any pharmacist’s shop in London and buy a tonic containing cocaine — but that was different. That was not going to the consulting room, drawing the syringe and bottle from its hiding-place, rolling up a shirt-sleeve, finding a vein, inserting the needle — ugh. I shuddered and looked around quickly in case anyone had seen me.

  That was it. The secrecy.

  Sherlock had kept a secret from me.

  And if he could keep one secret, he could keep others.

  Could I trust him?

  I hurried to another department, then another. I could not keep still. One what if after another was chasing through my brain. But as I walked, the path I must take became clearer.

  I must tell Sherlock that I knew. And I must look after myself.

  I shrank from it at first. I tried to find another way, a way without confrontation, but the truth screamed at me.

  If you pretend that you don’t know, that you haven’
t seen, you are lying to him.

  He is a proud man, Dr Watson had said. But I was a proud woman, too. I was not prepared to turn a blind eye, to avoid the consulting room in case I stumbled across something I wasn’t meant to see. That would feel as if I was allowing it to happen —

  Whatever it was. I had no idea of the effects of cocaine. I would have to look it up. I smiled at the idea of visiting the library and asking Mr Rogers to recommend a book on the effects of drug use, but there was no need. The library at home would have all the information I needed.

  The decision made, my heart felt lighter with every step I took. I pushed away any doubts. Yes, it might be an uncomfortable discussion. I corrected myself; it would be an uncomfortable discussion. Perhaps Sherlock would be angry. But at least I would not have to lie, or pretend. Given the constant duplicity of my life — my false identity, my hidden husband, my concealed relationship with Sherlock — I needed one thing that was true.

  I caught no shoplifters that afternoon. I doubt I would have noticed if an enterprising thief had unpinned my own shawl and made off with it. I entered Mr Turner’s office with some apprehension; but fortunately he chose to see the bright side. ‘Word’s getting around, Mrs Hudson!’ He rubbed his hands. ‘They’re thick as thieves.’ He chortled at his joke. ‘They’ll have spread the word that we’ve got a lady detective — no, more than one! A red-haired one, and a dark-haired one — you can never spot her — and that what makes her dangerous. It’s the best idea I ever had,’ he said, swinging in his chair.

  As I walked home, my own brief brush with addiction came into my head. It had happened after Jack had vanished. A doctor prescribed laudanum to relieve the horror of my situation, but it brought a new horror, a new shame. I remembered myself at my worst — wheedling, scheming, desperate for my next dose. Only Billy’s care had weaned me from it; and if he had not helped me, I would probably have died.

  Sherlock’s case seemed nothing like mine. He had seemed perfectly normal when he came downstairs the next morning. Perhaps I was over-reacting and Sherlock’s use of the drug was nothing to worry about. But then I thought of Dr Watson’s face when I had confronted him with my discovery.

  I arrived home with no sense of how I had got there. ‘I’m back,’ I called down the kitchen steps.

  Billy appeared at the kitchen door, looking relieved. ‘Mr Holmes has been asking for you for the last hour, ma’am.’

  ‘Why?’ I glanced at the hall clock. ‘I am not late.’

  ‘He said he needed your help.’

  ‘Nell, is that you?’ I turned in the direction of the voice. Sherlock was on the landing, holding a batch of papers.

  ‘I’m just coming up,’ I said, taking off my hat.

  ‘Good. Don’t bother getting changed, I need you now.’ He disappeared from view.

  Billy and I exchanged glances. ‘Shall I hold dinner, ma’am?’

  ‘It might be as well.’ Billy went back into the kitchen and I heard the hum of voices.

  I climbed the stairs slowly, uncertain of what I would find at the top. I only knew that with every step a little more of my resolve drained away, and as I tapped on the consulting-room door, my heart felt like a clenched fist.

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Come in, Nell.’ The note of irritation in Sherlock’s tone scraped on my nerves. I bit my lip and pushed open the door. The consulting room was even untidier than it had been before. I gazed at the wreck for the small morocco case, but it was not there. That, at least, was a relief.

  Sherlock stood, papers in both hands, frowning. ‘I had it a moment ago…’ he muttered.

  ‘I am here, Sherlock,’ I said, picking my way through the jumble and taking a seat in the armchair. ‘What would you like me to do?’

  He looked not at me, but through me. ‘I have a set of pen portraits of the warders at Wandsworth. I need you to make a list of any who are a close physical match for Emmett Stanley — when I can find the papers I had a moment ago.’ He threw down the papers he was holding, and they fluttered to the floor.

  ‘Is that all you want me to do?’ It seemed a ridiculously simple task.

  ‘Yes,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘I began it, but my brain keeps darting off onto other matters, God knows why.’

  I knew why. ‘I shall go and change, then —’

  ‘I want you to do it now!’ Sherlock loomed over me, and his finger quivered as he pointed at the mess.

  I stood up, trying not to tremble myself. ‘I’ll go and change, or I won’t do it at all.’ I had to pass close to him, close enough to touch. Please don’t grab me, I begged silently. But Sherlock’s arms had fallen to his sides, and now he looked not angry, but frightened. I had never seen him afraid before, and it chilled me to the heart.

  ‘I shall only be a few minutes,’ I promised, and opened the connecting door to the bedroom.

  On one hand I wanted to take my time; on the other I did not want to risk Sherlock’s anger. I snatched the wig from my head with no care for its arrangement, and tossed it on the bed. Then I pulled the pins from my hair, brushed it, and twisted it up. ‘I’m just going to wash,’ I called, and ran up to the bathroom. The cool water soothed me a little. Having left various smears on the towel in my haste, I made sure that I was at least clean, and hurried back down. At least now, whatever I had to say, I would be saying it as myself.

  ‘I am ready,’ I said, as I came into the room, and Sherlock whipped round from the bookcase, hurriedly pushing something back into place.

  I walked over to him and put my hand on his arm. ‘Show me.’

  He shook his head, fear in his eyes.

  ‘Show me.’

  He watched as, standing on tiptoe, I pulled out first one book, then another, until the small morocco case was revealed. ‘Put it back,’ he said as I pulled it forward, but his tone betrayed that he had no hope I would obey him. ‘Don’t look,’ he said, as I opened the case. There it was, muzzled with a sheath.

  ‘I have already seen it,’ I said. I closed the case again and put it on the shelf. Sherlock was standing behind me, his breath coming in quick gasps. I took his hand, which was cold and clammy, and with my other hand I drew up his crumpled sleeve. He did not resist.

  There were two pieces of sticking plaster on the inside of his forearm, one edged with a purple bruise.

  I looked up at Sherlock, but his eyes were closed. I released his hand and returned to the bookshelf.

  ‘Leave it!’ cried Sherlock, as I swept the rest of the books to the floor. The treacherous little bottle was behind them. I seized it, read the label, and dashed it to pieces on the hearth.

  ‘When did you take it?’ I shouted, my fears of disturbing the house entirely forgotten.

  Sherlock passed a hand over his brow. ‘This afternoon, when I returned from Wandsworth … I don’t remember exactly when.’

  That was the worst thing. I could endure Sherlock’s anger, I could forgive a lapse, but the thought of a worthless drug taking him away from me, blunting the edge of his brilliant mind, twisting his uniqueness into fear and deceit … that I could not forgive.

  I led him to the sofa and sat beside him. ‘You have to stop.’

  He picked at the edge of the older sticking plaster. ‘I had stopped.’ He half-smiled. ‘Watson lectured me on the subject so many times that it seemed the best course of action.’ He pushed his hair back and sighed, looking almost like himself. ‘I do know it isn’t good for me. I’m not stupid. But when the urge is there, the hunger —’ He broke off. ‘I’m sorry, Nell.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Not exactly romantic, is it?’

  I stroked his hand. ‘I think we’re both a little past that.’

  He put his hand over mine. ‘Perhaps we should try harder.’

  I looked up at him, but I couldn’t read his expression. His grey eyes were opaque.

  ‘Perhaps we should,’ I said, remembering the hateful emotions which had oozed out of me at the department store. But now I was with Sherlock, I felt different. I felt stro
nger, more capable. I wanted to help, not wallow in my own self-pity. I raised my face to his, put my hand on his shoulder, then ran it gently round to the back of his collar —

  ‘No.’ Sherlock reached round and took my hand, not ungently, and held it in both his own.

  ‘No?’ I asked, discomfited.

  ‘Not like this.’ His mouth twitched. ‘There wouldn’t be much point — I mean, in any of it. When the high ends, it’s the worst thing in the world. You feel numb, and then worse than numb. It’s as if you’ve been cast into a pit you can never climb out of.’

  I shuddered. ‘Why do you do it?’ I whispered. I wanted to never let him go, never let him out of my sight, never let him do it again.

  Sherlock bent his head to mine, and kissed me on the lips. It was the chastest kiss he had ever given me. ‘Because when you’re on a high, it’s worth it. You feel invincible, euphoric, as if you could span oceans with a stride. And when you’ve felt that just once, all you want to do is get back there. Whatever it takes.’ He smiled, sadly. ‘I know it’s an illusion. My rational brain knows it only too well. But once you’re up there, you don’t care if it’s a lie or not. It’s the only truth worth knowing.’

  My eyes followed his to the shards of glass and spilt liquid on the hearth. ‘It doesn’t look much like a truth to me,’ I said, drawing back a little.

  ‘It doesn’t, does it,’ Sherlock mused. Suddenly he pulled me to him and kissed the top of my head. ‘Thank you, Nell,’ he murmured into my hair.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For trying.’ He released me. ‘You must be hungry.’

  My stomach growled as if it were an actor taking his cue. ‘Shall I go and tell Billy to serve dinner?’

  ‘Ask him to put a tray outside for me.’ He shook his head at my inquiring expression. ‘I am not fit company for man or beast. I —’ He paused, searching for words in a way that he would never usually need to. ‘I feel like a violin.’ His mouth quirked at my furrowed brow. ‘A violin which a master craftsman has taken, and sanded away a layer, and tuned so that every note, every touch, makes me shriek.’