‘Oh God, Sherlock —’ I bit my lip to try and stop myself from crying.
‘I shall stay in here tonight.’ The words rushed out as if they were trying to push my reaction back. ‘If I begin to feel better, I’ll come through.’ I nodded. I had no words left.
I went downstairs and gave my orders, and when dinner was served I ate it without tasting a thing. After dinner I sat in the drawing room and turned the pages of a novel, while Dr Watson turned the pages of a newspaper at me, and at ten o’clock, unable to be in company any longer, I said goodnight.
The tray outside the consulting-room door had not been touched. I moved it away and set my hand to the cool brass knob. The gas lamps were turned low, but I could see Sherlock, in his dressing gown, huddled against the foot of the sofa, arms wrapped around himself. Every so often he shuddered slightly. I couldn’t even tell if he were awake or asleep.
I closed the door and got ready for bed, but before I drew back the covers and climbed in I did something I had not done for many years. I knelt beside the bed and prayed to God — to anyone who would listen — to help Sherlock. I whispered into my clasped hands for what seemed an eternity, until I had poured it all out to an invisible, silent ear. When I at last rose my limbs were chilled stiff, and I grimaced as I lifted myself into the high bed. I lay for several minutes, wide awake, changing position to try and get warmth into my cold bones. It was no use. I tossed and turned for several minutes more, then rolled to Sherlock’s side of the bed. It smelt of him. I wrapped my arms around the pillow and held it close, inhaling his scent, wishing he were there with me.
When I awoke the birds were singing outside, and a beam of light sliced the bed in two. I had overslept. I tried to roll over, to get out of bed, but I could not. Sherlock’s long, sinewy arm was slung across me, and his body cupped mine. I savoured the slow, regular rise and fall of his chest against my back, and gave thanks. And yet my joy and relief was tempered. The crisis was over — for now.
CHAPTER 15
I startled awake at a tap on the door. ‘Ma’am?’ Martha called softly. ‘It’s a quarter to nine. I’ve brought you a fresh pot of tea.’
‘Thank you,’ I called.
Sherlock’s arm twitched, and he stirred. ‘Did I hear a quarter to nine?’ he murmured.
‘I am afraid so.’ I tensed myself for a whirlwind of bathing, dressing, striding round the room.
‘Hmmm.’ Sherlock’s hand explored my hip.
***
‘Do you still want me to look at those papers?’ I asked.
Sherlock drank the rest of his cooling cup of tea. ‘Could we do it together? My head is much clearer, but —’ He glanced at me, and I cursed the little wrinkle of doubt between his brows.
‘Of course,’ I said, throwing the covers aside. ‘We had better get breakfast first though, before Martha gives up on us.’
Dr Watson had already left for the day, and we breakfasted together at a corner of the large dining table. I felt like a child playing at being a grown-up, and wished we could shut the world out for a day. But work was looming, and soon we were upstairs in the consulting room, the fire beginning to warm it. Sherlock pulled a long, low table up to the two armchairs, and collected handfuls of papers from around the room.
I eyed the bundle he set down on the table. ‘Is that all of it?’
‘Were you hoping for more, Nell?’ Sherlock divided the bundle roughly in two. ‘Here we have pen portraits of the seventy warders employed at Wandsworth Prison. The task in hand is to narrow this bunch down to anyone who would have been physically able to impersonate Emmett Stanley — and if possible, to pick out the most likely candidates.’
I curled up in the armchair, and began to read. It did not take me long to dismiss the first candidate; at over six feet tall, with fair hair, he could never have been the slight, dark-haired Emmett Stanley. I dropped the paper on the floor and studied the next. Philip Granger. Five feet seven, well-built, short brown hair, blue eyes, clean-shaven. No distinguishing marks — He was a possibility. And then I recalled when I had done something similar. We had been holed up in Somerset House, in Mycroft Holmes’s office, searching the passenger lists of the Valiant for another missing man — except that then, Sherlock had been working on my behalf.
I glanced over to see his eyes already on me. ‘Are you —?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘I am quite all right. But — it brings it back.’
The fire crackled as a log shifted in the grate. I watched the sparks drift upwards for a moment. Then I read on.
It took perhaps fifteen minutes to dismiss half of the wardens in my pile. I lifted up the papers I had consigned to the floor, squared off their edges, and placed them on the table. ‘These are my rejects. Would you check them?’
We swapped our piles, and each glanced through the other’s papers. ‘I agree,’ said Sherlock at length, tossing them back to the floor.
‘So do I.’ I dropped mine on top of his.
‘Now for the shortlist.’ I pulled my chair closer, and we put our heads together, scanning the pages. Samuel Cross … five feet nine inches tall, black hair, clean-shaven … fifteen years a warder… My finger underlined the words. ‘I can’t imagine that someone who’d worked there so long would do a thing like this.’
‘I agree. Too much at stake.’ We riffled through the pile, removing those with ten or more years’ service. Sherlock walked his fingers through the remaining papers. ‘Fourteen left.’ He looked at me. ‘Tell me, Nell, what sort of crime does this feel like to you?’
I mused for a moment, gazing into the flames. ‘A risky crime, a confident one. At any stage — hiding the key, knocking Stanley out, taking his place, leaving the cell — something could happen to expose him. The reward must have been high. It … it feels like a young man’s crime.’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘I see a young man, not in the service long, dissatisfied, perhaps passed over for an opportunity, and easily influenced. Oh, and without the steadying influence of a wife.’ He grinned at me.
‘Very amusing.’ I reached across and gave his hand a light smack. ‘Let’s get back to the papers.’
My eyes raced down the pages, pausing at certain words, running on.
‘No. Wife and young family.’
‘No. Recently promoted. He wouldn’t risk that.’
‘No. Lay chaplain.’
‘Yes.’
There were three papers left. Sherlock swept the other papers away and laid them side by side on the table. ‘Thomas Palmer, William Coates, Simeon Davies.’ His eyes sought mine. ‘Agreed?’
I looked at the papers. Three from seventy. ‘Agreed.’
Sherlock puffed out a sigh. ‘Good. Excellent.’ He knelt to gather the papers from the floor. ‘I shall send a wire. But first —’ He leaned on the arm of my chair and kissed me. ‘Thank you for your help.’
I smiled through the second kiss. ‘I think you could have managed without me,’ I murmured, my lips brushing his.
‘Managing is not the point.’ He drew back a little to look at me. ‘You bring something that Watson, for all his virtues, never could.’
I giggled. ‘Well, I didn’t imagine that you two —’
Sherlock’s eyes widened for a moment, and then he laughed in a way I had rarely heard him do before; a short bark of a laugh which popped out of him like a cork from a bottle. ‘What I was talking about, you rude woman, was companionship,’ he grinned.
I raised my eyebrows at him.
‘No, really. Watson accompanies me on my cases more often than not, but he is an observer, a recorder, a scribe. He doesn’t affect the outcome. Whereas you are right in there with me. It’s a different feeling entirely.’ He held my gaze for a moment, lights dancing in his grey eyes. ‘And speaking of different … don’t you need to go to work?’
I twisted round to see the clock. ‘Heavens!’ I sprang up and ran to the dressing room.
‘I like you as a redhead,’ Sherlock called.
<
br /> ‘Ha! Even if I had asked your opinion, there isn’t time!’ I pulled down the nearest box, hunting for the styled wig I had worn the previous day, until I remembered it was still in the bedroom. I ran back through the consulting room and shook the bedclothes, then peered under the bed —
‘Looking for something?’ Sherlock stood in the doorway, one hand behind his back. He held the wig above his head for a moment, before relenting and putting it into my hand.
The wig was weeping hairpins. ‘I’ll have to take these out and start again.’
‘No. Sit down and put your hair up, and I’ll fetch you another wig. You can get a cab for once.’ He disappeared for a few moments and returned waving the auburn wig like a battle trophy. ‘Surprise!’
I took it from him and fitted it over my own hair. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to dye my hair red,’ I said, as I reached for more pins.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said, watching me in the mirror. ‘I’ll go and hold a cab for you.’
Hastily disguised, I ran downstairs to find Billy holding the door open for me and Sherlock at the door of a waiting cab. ‘Thank you,’ I said, as he helped me in. ‘Debenham and Freebody, please!’ I called to the driver.
‘He knows,’ said Sherlock, leaning in to kiss me. But even as I kissed him back, a little voice whispered in my head. You’re leaving him alone, with every druggist in London at his disposal…
‘You won’t, will you?’ I said.
‘Won’t what?’ he murmured. I saw his face change as he realised what I meant, and wished I had not spoken, not put the idea into his head. He stepped back from the carriage. ‘No, I won’t,’ he said quietly.
I reached out a hand to him, but the cabman was already whipping up the horse, and I could only look as we sped away. We had had a busy morning together, a — what had he said? — A companionable morning, such as we had not had for a long time, and my question had taken the shine from it. Yet it was not my fault, I told myself. Surely any wife would have the same concern — but I was not Sherlock’s wife, as nearly as I felt myself to be on occasion. And as the cab rattled through the streets I wondered whether I would ever be able to leave him alone without worrying.
CHAPTER 16
I was watching a woman edge closer to a display of scarves when a ‘Found you!’ in my ear made me squeal.
‘What are you doing here?’ I hissed at Sherlock, who was grinning at my outraged expression.
‘I’ve come to fetch you. Gregson’s summoned me, and I am summoning you.’
‘What about Dr Watson?’
‘Dr Watson won’t do. Come on Nell, I have a cab waiting.’
Sherlock strode off, but I stood firm. ‘What about my job?’
‘I had a word.’ Sure enough, Mr Turner stood beaming near the door, waiting to bow us out. What on earth had Sherlock told him?
‘Where are we going?’ I asked as Sherlock handed me into the cab. I had caught sight of myself in a mirror as we left the shop, having completely forgotten that I was disguised. ‘Do I need to change?’
‘Probably not.’ He took a seat beside me, slammed the door, and the cab shot forward.
‘Don’t you know?’
The cab had made two turns before Sherlock replied. ‘We’re going to the Stanley house in Ealing. Gregson wired telling me to come at once. That’s all he said.’
The Stanley house.
Effie Stanley.
I cast my mind back to the last — the only time we had met. It had been my first assignment for Sherlock. In the course of shadowing Mrs Stanley I had taken the table next to hers, made small talk, and offered to post the letter which contained plans to rob the Bank of England —
I had helped to put Emmett Stanley in prison. Perhaps that had made him easier to abduct.
If ever I had wanted to pass unrecognised, today was the day. I pulled a pocket mirror from my bag, heart racing. What had I worn that day?
‘You had chestnut hair and pince-nez,’ Sherlock’s eyes met mine over the top of the mirror. He put a hand on my arm. ‘You looked quite different.’
‘What if she…?’
‘She won’t.’ Sherlock took my hand. ‘Nell, Gregson doesn’t summon me for nothing. Effie Stanley will have much more to think about than whether the detective’s assistant bears a slight resemblance to a lady she once chatted with over a cup of tea.’ I felt the warmth of his hand through my thin glove. ‘In fact, it could be useful if she still doesn’t know what you look like…’
I sighed. ‘It’s never straightforward, is it?’
He grinned. ‘Straightforward is dull.’
The journey to Ealing took less than an hour, even with London traffic. I looked out as Sherlock told me we were getting close, but I could not have been prepared for journey’s end. The cab leaned right, rattling down a long curve of gravel drive. I could not see the house until we had passed a small copse of trees, when a square red-brick manor house glided towards us, and the woodland gave way to manicured lawns and formal flower beds.
‘She seemed so … normal,’ I murmured, trying not to stare.
‘This is normal, for some people,’ Sherlock observed, drily.
The cab slowed almost to walking pace, as if it didn’t want to disturb anyone. We drove past a gardener standing on the top of a small ladder, snipping at a topiary squirrel. He watched us by, then returned to his trimming.
‘I knew she had a footman,’ I said weakly, as the carriage rolled to a stop.
Sherlock turned to me. ‘Nell, they’re people, just like we are.’
‘I know, but —’ I looked down at myself, and the clothes which were perfectly respectable in a London department store now seemed cheap and tawdry. ‘Perhaps I should wait in the carriage —’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Sherlock opened the door and reached for my hand. ‘You are my assistant, not a fashion plate. I wouldn’t care if you wore a flour sack.’
I smiled in spite of myself. ‘I would.’
I kept close to Sherlock as we climbed the white stone steps to the entrance. Before we could ring or knock the door swung open, and a footman took our coats. I lifted my hat carefully from my head, feeling as if I was unmasking myself.
‘You are expected.’ The voice startled me. I had not heard the butler approach. ‘Please wait here, and I shall fetch Inspector Gregson.’ He departed as silently as he had come, walking down the length of the hallway and vanishing through a door.
I shivered as I looked around me. The hall was imposing, beautiful. Its duck-egg-blue walls were ornamented with white plaster, and in each ornate plaster frame was set an oil painting. The floor was tiled in black and white marble. From the centre of the room rose a mahogany staircase with a runner of bright Turkey carpet. But the hush, the stillness, made it feel like a tomb. I glanced at Sherlock. He seemed completely at home, unfazed, walking from picture to picture as if he were in an art gallery. His words in the carriage echoed in my head. This is normal, for some people. What was his normal? I thought of Mycroft Holmes’s luxuriously-appointed surroundings. Where had Sherlock grown up? For the first time I realised that since we had met, we had been occupied with untangling the mystery of my past, then building a present together. I had never considered Sherlock’s background, or his past. He had never spoken of it, except in one conversation about his family.
My reverie was interrupted by a creak overhead. Inspector Gregson was hurrying downstairs. ‘Thank God you’re here, Holmes.’ He advanced, hand outstretched. ‘No Watson today?’
Sherlock shook the proffered hand. ‘Mrs Hudson is assisting me today,’ he said smoothly, nodding in my direction.
The Inspector’s face fell slightly. ‘Ah. Good afternoon, Mrs —’ As he turned to greet me, his bland expression was overlaid by confusion.
‘I have come from the department store,’ I explained, gesturing towards my auburn wig.
‘Oh, of course, of course. All going well at the shop, I take it? Keeping the thieves out of t
he haberdashery, eh?’ He chuckled.
‘I do my best,’ I said, rather stiffly.
‘Capital.’ He turned back to Sherlock. ‘Well it can’t be helped, but Watson would have been very useful today. I assumed — Anyway, we had better go up.’
‘What has happened?’ I asked.
The Inspector stared at me. ‘Emmett Stanley has been found.’
‘What?’ Sherlock and I spoke with one voice.
‘I was as surprised as you. The telegram came while I was out on another case, and they had to come and find me. I only paused to wire you.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Stanley was found dumped under a bush in his own garden, gagged and bound. He was covered in fallen leaves.’
‘Alive?’
The Inspector nodded. ‘But —’
‘What, is he injured?’ Sherlock asked, moving towards the stairs. Gregson put a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Apart from rope burns, there isn’t a mark on him that I can see. But he won’t talk. I don’t think he can talk. He looks as if he’s stared death in the face. Any sudden noise, and— ’ The snap of his fingers rang like a gunshot in the cavernous hall. ‘I reckon he’d be gone.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Mrs Stanley found him when she was cutting roses, and she fainted dead away.’ Shaking his head, he mounted the first steps. ‘Watson would have known if he’s shamming, but my instinct is that it’s real. See for yourself.’
The landing was as grand as the hall had been, but our only interest was in the door which stood ajar at the top of the stairs. Inspector Gregson held it for Sherlock and me to pass in.
The bedroom was dark. A miscellany of pictures covered dark green walls and mahogany half-panelling, and the curtains were closed, though a fresh breeze came from behind them. A nurse sat in the corner, knitting. By the bed sat Mrs Stanley — but it was not the Mrs Stanley I knew. Her forehead rested on her clasped hands, one of which grasped a rosary, and she was muttering. I caught the words ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God…’, and wondered how long she had been praying for. She sounded as if she would never stop, and with the rhythmic clack of needles from the corner, the effect was of a relentlessly moving machine of care.
In Sherlock's Shadow (Mrs Hudson & Sherlock Holmes Book 2) Page 8
