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

by Liz Hedgecock

  And at last my eyes reached the four-poster bed near the window. The top of a head was visible; all else was a heap of bedclothes. It was too dark to see more.

  ‘The doctor said dim light and quiet might help him.’ Gregson’s voice, though not loud, seemed obscenely so in this place. ‘Any change, Mrs Stanley?’

  The muttering stopped, and Effie Stanley looked up from her clasped hands. Wisps of her dark hair had escaped from her bun, and her face was already drawn from grief. She shook her head mutely, and pressed it down onto her clasped knuckles as if she might lose her place. Gregson raised his eyebrows at the nurse, who said apologetically, ‘No change, sir,’ and waited a decent interval before resuming her knitting.

  Gregson approached the bed and gently moved the cover back. There was no resistance from the body beneath. Emmett Stanley lay curled in a ball, his hands clasping his knees, his head on his chest. His breathing was quick; it rasped out of him as if it were being dragged.

  ‘Mr Stanley,’ Gregson said quietly.

  The man did not respond.

  ‘Stanley,’ he repeated, a little louder.

  The head lifted slightly, but Stanley gave no other sign.

  Sherlock stepped forward and gently laid two fingers on the man’s neck. ‘The pulse is quick, but steady.’ He touched his forehead. ‘He is very warm — partly through being bundled up in bed, but I suspect a fever. What was he wearing when he was found?’

  ‘A shirt and trousers. No shoes. You can see them downstairs,’ said Gregson. ‘He’s been put in one of his old nightshirts for now.’

  Sherlock leaned closer and peered at the man’s hands. ‘I see no marks of ill-usage, apart from the rope burns on his wrists. Does he have any injuries?’ he asked, turning to Gregson.

  The Inspector shook his head.

  ‘I would like a closer look, though … Nell, would you mind drawing the curtain for me?’

  I moved round the foot of the bed to the window. The tapestry curtain was thick and stiff in my hand. I drew it back a fraction, and raised my eyebrows at Sherlock, who was bending close to Stanley. ‘A bit more,’ he mouthed.

  I moved further up the room, towards the bed, as I drew the curtain, and —

  The scream almost made me pull the curtain from its pole. It was unearthly, eldritch, heart-rending. Emmett Stanley, his back arched and his eyes wide, was staring at me, and screaming.

  I let the curtain fall and Inspector Gregson took my arm. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, as he pulled me away. ‘I’ve never —’ Mrs Stanley was staring at me too, and her eyes were full of hatred.

  ‘Stay on the landing,’ the Inspector muttered, between clenched teeth. ‘Nurse,’ he called into the room. ‘Come here, please.’

  I waited outside, half-watched by the nurse, for several minutes. Mr Stanley’s screams had subsided, but I could hear a low, animal wail in its place. I also heard lowered, angry voices within the room, but I did not dare move closer. Eventually the door opened and Sherlock strode out. ‘We have to leave,’ he snapped.

  ‘What happened?’ I had to half-run to keep up.

  Sherlock turned so suddenly that I almost cannoned into him. ‘You tell me, Nell. Right now, I’m the only thing standing between you and a prison cell.’

  CHAPTER 17

  A cab was procured, and we began the drive back to Baker Street in silence. I stared out of the window, but saw nothing of the outside world. I was in a dark room, bewildered and upset. I had never seen Emmett Stanley in my life, and yet —

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured. I looked across at Sherlock, who was frowning at me, but in a thoughtful way.

  ‘You’re sure you’ve never met Stanley?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘In that case —’ He banged on the roof. ‘Turn around please,’ he cried. The cab stopped, and after some manoeuvring, we sped back towards Ealing. ‘If there’s something about this that neither of us can understand, it is almost certainly something worth knowing.’ Now that he had a hypothesis, Sherlock was transformed. His shoulders were straight, his head up, and his eyes gleamed at the prospect of a good fight.

  The Stanleys’ house was just as imposing the second time, but knowing the horror inside, I would not have swapped even the little Clerkenwell flat where I had begun married life for all its grandeur. Sherlock jumped down and helped me out. ‘I am sorry I was angry before,’ he whispered, as we mounted the steps. ‘To be thrown out just when things were getting interesting…’

  The door opened. The butler looked down at us, and while on the surface his expression was as impassive as it had been on our previous reception, I sensed the emotions below.

  ‘Please could you ask Inspector Gregson to come down?’ Sherlock handed his hat and coat to the butler with an air of finality which stunned me.

  The butler merely bowed, and set off for the back stairs. ‘I am itching to get into that room again,’ said Sherlock, gazing at the grand staircase. ‘I had better behave by the book, I suppose.’

  Inspector Gregson strode downstairs faster than I had ever seen him move. ‘What is it now, Holmes?’ he growled. ‘I’ve spent the last quarter of an hour working with the nurse to soothe Mrs Stanley out of her hysterics.’ He flung an angry glance at me. ‘Mrs Hudson, whatever Holmes has in mind, you will stay well out of it. Another scene like that —’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Sherlock. ‘I believe that Stanley’s reaction to my assistant is a clue.’

  The Inspector’s glare intensified. ‘If I find out that you have been mixed up in this business —’

  ‘How could I be mixed up in it?’ I cried. ‘I have barely left Baker Street lately, except to undertake the work which you assigned me!’

  The Inspector backed away, lifting his hands as if to ward me off. ‘All right all right, Mrs Hudson. One hysterical woman is enough, thank you.’ If looks could kill, he would have lain dead at my feet in an instant. ‘Holmes, what exactly do you want?’

  ‘I propose an experiment.’ Sherlock took the Inspector by the arm and drew him aside. I could see his strategy — make the Inspector feel that they were men together, rational, sensible men who would get the job done. I turned away to hide my annoyance. ‘If we assume that Mrs Hudson is not involved in this business — and I do not see how she could be — then it is something about her which has triggered Mr Stanley’s reaction. I suggest that we clear the bedroom, and see if we can identify the trigger.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The Inspector nodded in a wise manner. ‘I see what you are getting at.’ He rubbed his jaw, considering me. ‘I shall suggest to Mrs Stanley that she goes to another room for a break. The poor woman is exhausted. Wait here.’

  ‘What do you think the trigger might be?’ I whispered to Sherlock, watching the Inspector’s broad back ascend the stairs.

  ‘I have no idea,’ he whispered back.

  A few minutes later the Inspector appeared at the top of the stairs and beckoned us up. I could feel myself trembling as I climbed.

  ‘Are you all right, Nell?’ Sherlock took my arm.

  ‘I — it’s rather nerve-racking.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sherlock, after a pause. ‘I’ll try to be quick.’

  We stopped outside the bedroom door. ‘How do we begin?’ asked the Inspector.

  ‘You and I go in first and get settled by the bed,’ said Sherlock. ‘Mrs Hudson, will you then come in, go to the window, and draw back the curtain, just as you did earlier?’

  ‘I shall do my best,’ I said, though the thought filled me with dread.

  ‘Good.’ Sherlock followed the Inspector into the bedroom.

  I gave them a couple of minutes to arrange themselves, and then entered. Mr Stanley was curled up as he had been before. I approached the foot of the bed and walked slowly to the window, my eyes on Emmett Stanley the whole time. His eyes shifted towards me and even in the low light I saw his terror. I backed away.

  ‘Take off your wig,’ mouthed Sherlock. I lifted
it off and set it on the dressing table, then approached the window. Emmett Stanley became agitated the moment I came near. I retreated, shaking my head.

  ‘Try going to the other side of the bed.’ The Inspector was studying me, and I couldn’t read his expression. Did he seriously think I was mixed up in this? Would I find myself under arrest? I bit my lip and walked forward, and Emmett Stanley’s eyes, wide and distraught, found me.

  I stood against the wall. ‘I don’t think I can do this —’ I whispered, blinking hard.

  Sherlock got up and came to me, taking my hand. ‘There is something, there is something… The moment you come near his muscles tense, then he looks for you — Ha! He is afraid before he sees you. What is it, what is it?’ He stepped back a few paces, closed his eyes, and advanced slowly towards me. His eyes snapped open. ‘I believe I have it. Nell, when you were at the department store this afternoon, did you put on a new perfume?’

  My mouth dropped open. ‘I did!’ I smelt my wrist. ‘I was watching someone on the next counter, and I asked the assistant if I could try one, just to give me a reason for loitering.’ I held my wrists out to Sherlock, who bent and sniffed. ‘Jasmine,’ he muttered.

  The Inspector sprang up and came round the foot of the bed to us. ‘Did you say jasmine?’ he asked, his superior manner wiped away.

  Sherlock nodded.

  ‘Is there a way we can test it?’ His tone was almost deferential.

  ‘It depends…’ Sherlock led me to the dressing table, the top of which was crowded with scent bottles and preparations. ‘You probably know more about this than I, Nell. Is there anything here which approximates to the perfume you are wearing?’

  I felt like a trespasser as I ranged among Mrs Stanley’s things. ‘This one,’ I said finally, holding out the stopper for Sherlock to smell. ‘This is the closest match.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’ Sherlock took the bottle, replaced the stopper and advanced to the bed. Emmett Stanley seemed to be asleep. Sherlock lifted the stopper and held it towards Stanley.

  The effect was electric. Emmett Stanley clawed the air, looking wildly around, and screaming. Sherlock had moved away as soon as the reaction began, and stood watching, a peculiar expression on his face. After a minute, Stanley began to quieten, his movements becoming less frenetic, until he lay quiet again.

  ‘Well!’ The Inspector stepped forward, rubbing his hands. ‘It appears you are right, Mr Holmes. Most interesting, most interesting. Especially when coupled with — Wait a moment, and I will show you.’ He disappeared from the room, returning with the nurse a few moments later. ‘There. Come downstairs. I meant you to see it earlier, but, well —’ Our unceremonious departure hung in the air.

  We left the nurse to her knitting and went down to the cold hall. Inspector Gregson had a word with the butler, who raised his eyebrows, but led us through the sunny morning room and unlocked the French windows leading to the garden.

  ‘This way.’ The Inspector took us along a winding path, through an arch planted with clematis, to an informal garden. He waved at the rose garden beyond. ‘Mrs Stanley was coming back from there when she saw him.’ He took a few more steps forward, then doubled back and approached a large bush starred with yellow flowers. ‘He was under there.’

  I shivered. It seemed incongruous that such a cheerful plant could play a role in this affair. ‘May we?’ I mimed approaching the bush.

  ‘Of course,’ said the Inspector. ‘We have a drawing of the footprints leading to and from the bush. Much good it’ll do us; half the household had been over the ground before we arrived.’

  Sherlock and I went together. I bent and lifted a canary-yellow bloom to my face. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, bewildered. ‘I can’t smell anything.’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Sherlock. ‘This is Jasminum nudiflorum. Winter jasmine. Attractive, prolific, hardy, but almost entirely scentless.’

  He looked at the Inspector, who nodded. ‘I’m a gardening man. I knew it the moment I set eyes on it.’

  I wrapped my arms around myself. The day was drawing in, and the sky had that curious shadowy quality it acquires just before dusk, when everything seems not quite real. ‘The jasmine-scented notepaper,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’ The Inspector counted on his fingers. ‘Jasmine on the notepaper, Stanley terrified by the scent of it, and he was dumped under a jasmine bush. By God, I wish I understood.’

  Sherlock rubbed his face with his palms. ‘We are dealing with a twisted mind. They have tortured a man, and cast him aside knowing that he cannot — will not — betray them. I suspect that, however much care he receives, Emmett Stanley is utterly broken.’

  ‘What should we do next?’ asked Inspector Gregson.

  Sherlock shrugged. ‘What we can. Question the warders we identified as possible suspects. Speak to Mrs Stanley, when she is recovered. Examine the area round the bush, when we have enough light.’ He began to walk back to the house, but his usual decisive stride was shorter, more tentative, and he seemed to be casting around for clues.

  ‘I’m much obliged to you both,’ said Inspector Gregson, when we had reached the comparative warmth of the hall. ‘Let me know what you want to do tomorrow. Bring Watson, if you can. And you must come too, of course, Mrs Hudson.’ He smiled at me, and the smile I returned was not without a twist of irony.

  ‘I shall speak to Mr Turner,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said the Inspector, winking. ‘I’ll wire him. This is far more important than ladies’ fal-lals.’

  Ladies fal-lals have been paying the bills, I thought; but I sensed now was not the time to say it.

  We were treated to the Stanleys’ own carriage to convey us home. ‘What do you think?’ I asked Sherlock. It seemed such a simple question; but Sherlock’s thought was bound to be complicated, wide-ranging, utterly strange and at the same time completely logical.

  Sherlock looked out of the window for some time before he answered, though there was little to see but darkening fields and the dying light in the sky. ‘Honestly, Nell?’

  ‘Of course honestly.’

  Again he paused. ‘I think we are dealing with a monster.’

  CHAPTER 18

  ‘Nell … Nell…’

  I was being shaken gently. Yet I was not in my bed. It took some time for me to come to full consciousness. I was sitting up, and my head was pillowed on something bony, which turned out to be Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Where are we?’ I blinked, but we were still in darkness.

  Sherlock drew up a shade and gaslight illuminated a London street. ‘We are at Baker Street. You fell asleep about ten minutes after we set off.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘All those hairpins are very uncomfortable, you know.’

  I put my hand to my head, where my hair was pinned severely down. Where was my hat? What had I —? And then I remembered the auburn wig, and the scent of jasmine. I could still smell it on myself. I shuddered as Emmett Stanley’s screams rang in my head.

  Martha answered the door. ‘You look all in, begging my pardon. Both of you.’

  ‘We are, rather.’ Sherlock handed me over the threshold. ‘Anything we need to know?’

  ‘Not that I know of, sir,’ said Martha, closing and bolting the door. ‘Where have you been? I thought ma’am was at the shop today?’

  ‘I was,’ I said, taking off my jacket. ‘I was poached.’

  ‘We couldn’t have managed without her,’ said Sherlock, taking my jacket and hanging it up. ‘Is dinner underway?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Martha raised her eyebrows. ‘It will be ready for seven o’clock as usual. If that is what is required.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Sherlock rubbed his hands. ‘Nell, go and run yourself a bath, and I shall have a word with Dr Watson. I assume he is in?’

  Martha nodded. ‘He is reading in the drawing room, sir.’

  I climbed the stairs with a distinct feeling of dismissal. Perhaps I was tired, but I felt as if I were being over-
ruled. First I had been taken from my workplace, then Inspector Gregson had snubbed me, before Sherlock had saved me from arrest. Having provided a key clue, I was to be pulled from my work again tomorrow; but in the meantime I was packed off to my bath while the men consulted.

  I took my injured feelings out on my hair, pulling out the pins and brushing until my head tingled, then skewering it up for my bath. I changed into my dressing-gown and slippers and climbed the stairs to the chilly bathroom.

  The wonder of running hot water still amazed and delighted me. I put my hand under the tap and let the water cascade over it, forming a miniature waterfall. I remembered lugging cans of hot water up the stairs just a few months ago. My life had changed in so many ways. Perhaps I should be thankful. I poured in some bath salts and inhaled the scent of roses. Anything but jasmine.

  There was a tap at the door as I was preparing to get into the bath. ‘Who is it?’ I called.

  ‘Me,’ said Sherlock. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘On one condition,’ I replied. ‘You have to scrub my back.’ I unbolted the door and Sherlock inserted himself through the gap, grinning. I turned my back on him as I slipped off my dressing gown and stepped carefully into the bath. ‘Is this a social call?’ I asked. ‘And have you bolted the door?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good.’ I began to wash myself but Sherlock’s direct gaze made me blush and fumble with the sponge. ‘Why don’t you join me?’

  ‘I hoped you’d ask.’

  I repaid Sherlock’s compliment by leaning my elbows on the edge of the bath and watching him undress, to which he, too, turned his back. ‘Touché,’ he said lightly. I giggled and moved forward as he got into the bath behind me. ‘You’re all slippery,’ he murmured in my ear.

  ‘I prefer elusive,’ I said, handing the sponge over my shoulder.