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

by Liz Hedgecock

  I stared. ‘What, I ride with the family?’

  ‘You won’t get there in time any other way!’ I climbed up onto the box. ‘Here, hold these.’ He passed me the reins and jumped down.

  I clutched the reins and prayed while Tom helped milady, the children, and finally Nanny into the carriage. He jumped up beside me and I gladly handed them back. ‘Hold on, Bessie, we’ll be setting a pace.’

  I was close to vomiting by the time we reached the church. Tom helped me down and I put a hand on the stone wall, retching, while he assisted the inside passengers.

  ‘Attend me to my seat, please, then go to the gallery,’ said milady, sweeping past. I had no choice but to follow.

  Heads turned as milady entered the church. It was almost full, and I had a feeling that the vicar had been waiting for the party from the Hall to turn up. He consulted his watch, then raised his eyebrows. ‘Sorry,’ I mouthed. Milady sailed up the aisle to the front pew and I helped her to remove her wraps, placed her hassock, and found her prayer-book. Nanny shooed the children in next, with much whispering, and I went to join the others in the gallery.

  ‘You’ve been ages,’ said Ada, moving up to give me room.

  ‘I know,’ I said, then fell silent as the vicar cleared his throat. I found church restful; not because of any change to my spiritual health, but because it was an opportunity to sit and think. My responses came without the need for thought, and the vicar favoured the old hymns I knew from girlhood.

  At last the service was over, and Ada nudged me. ‘Go on, you need to attend milady out.’ I was making my way towards the staircase when my eyes fell on Susan. She was sitting at the back, in a corner, and a sparse fringe of golden hair showed under her mobcap, over which she had put a bonnet. She did not see me looking; her eyes were cast down. So that’s what she was doing in her room, I thought. Sewing her hair into the cap. I imagined the painstaking needlework that must have gone into the pathetic show, the tears she would have shed over her lost hair as she stitched and stitched; and I was sorry.

  CHAPTER 37

  Sir William was expected back by the half past four train. It was already growing dark by the time I heard the crackle of wheels on gravel. Milady had heard it too, for she started; then she continued to wind the wool I held for her with the same lazy motion.

  Presently there were footsteps on the stairs, and a tap at the boudoir door. Sir William entered and bowed slightly to milady. ‘I am home, Sophy,’ he said. He seemed too tired even to smile.

  ‘Indeed you are,’ said milady, putting her ball of wool into my hand and rising. She kissed him on the cheek. ‘How was it?’

  Sir William glanced warningly in my direction, then stared. ‘Why is she here? Where’s the other one?’

  ‘Susan has had a little accident, and works below stairs now,’ milady said smoothly, putting a hand on his arm.

  Sir William’s eyes narrowed as he looked at me. I dropped my gaze and sat, hands raised and wrapped in wool, feeling exceptionally foolish. ‘And who is the parlourmaid then, pray?’

  ‘Ada,’ said milady carelessly, sitting down and taking back her ball of wool. ‘Although I suppose we should call her Bessie.’

  ‘What shall this one be, then?’ Sir William was still looking at me, but now he seemed puzzled.

  ‘She answers to Mouse.’ Milady began to wind the wool again.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t call a servant Mouse!’ snapped Sir William. ‘You … what is your Christian name?’

  ‘It is Martha, sir,’ I replied.

  ‘Then I shall call you Martha.’ He turned to milady. ‘High tea at the usual time?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, her eyes on the wool.

  ‘Then I shall go to the study.’ He withdrew, closing the door softly.

  ‘Poor Sir William has had a hard weekend,’ remarked milady, not seeming particularly upset.

  I felt a response was expected. ‘Do you think so, milady?’

  ‘I know.’ She smiled, and wound the last of the wool off my hands, throwing the ball into the air and catching it. ‘And I shall find out about it later. Bring me the latest Graphic, it’s downstairs somewhere. The one with a painting of trees on the cover.’ Her clarification made me wonder if Sir William had shared with her my inability to read.

  The magazine would almost certainly be in the drawing room, but I tried the library first, then the breakfast room, hoping that the opening and closing of doors might disturb Sir William. It did not, and I did not dare to try the study before I had exhausted all other possibilities. The Graphic was in the drawing-room magazine rack. I took it up and went into the hall, closing the door gently.

  The study door opened suddenly and Sir William stuck his head out. ‘Come in here, Martha.’

  I stood in front of the desk, the magazine in my hand, while Sir William closed the door, tidied his papers, and took his seat behind the desk. ‘You’re not in trouble,’ he said abruptly. ‘I want to know why Susan is downstairs and you are lady’s maid.’

  I bit my lip and fidgeted while I worked out how to phrase my reply. ‘Susan played a prank, and milady sent her downstairs.’

  ‘A prank, eh? What sort of prank?’ He seemed relieved.

  I decided an appearance of discretion might be wise. ‘I would rather not say, sir.’

  ‘Is it something to do with this?’ He gestured at my hair.

  I gulped, and nodded.

  ‘What did Susan do?’ His voice was kindly now, soothing. ‘Tell me, Martha.’

  ‘She cut my plait off, sir.’

  ‘And milady sent her downstairs.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did she do anything else?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She cut off Susan’s hair, sir. But please don’t tell her it was me told you, sir!’

  ‘I see.’ His face could have been carved from stone, and he seemed to gaze into the distance. Then he came to himself. ‘Have you been reading, Bessie — I mean, Martha?’

  I smiled, feeling on safer ground. ‘I have tried a little more, sir.’

  ‘Show me.’ He motioned to the Graphic I was holding. ‘Sit.’ I went to the armchair in the corner. ‘No, sit by me.’

  I pulled up a chair and did as I was told, opening the magazine and looking for a page with pictures.

  ‘Try this one.’ Sir William tapped a page headed ‘A Sketch from Sadler’s Wells.’ I stumbled through the first few sentences, with many wrong turns and much prompting from Sir William. ‘Good,’ he said eventually. ‘I can see that you are trying, Martha.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ I closed the paper.

  ‘Wait.’ He scrutinised me. ‘You hold your head differently, you know, without that big bun of hair.’

  ‘Do I, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you do. Your neck seems longer.’ He reached forward and I tried not to flinch as he touched the hair above my ear. ‘It’s quite rough, isn’t it?’ His voice was a mixture of surprise and disappointment.

  I stood up. ‘I had better take milady her magazine.’

  ‘Yes, you had.’ He eyed the neat pile of papers.

  ‘Should you still be working, sir?’ I asked.

  He smiled, wearily. ‘I am a man down at present, and it is my own fault, for allowing foolish suspicion to get the better of me.’

  He must mean Mycroft! ‘Could you not make it right, sir?’ I said, trying to seem politely interested.

  ‘I could try,’ he said, rubbing his forehead. ‘But I think that pride will get in the way. His, or mine.’

  ‘Perhaps you should sleep on it, sir,’ I ventured.

  ‘Perhaps I should!’ He laughed. ‘Go along, Martha, milady will be wanting you.’

  I curtsied and ran upstairs to milady, who looked impatient. ‘Where have you been, writing a new one?’

  ‘I am sorry, milady, Sir William was talking to me.’

  ‘Was he, now.’ Milady stretched her hand out for the maga
zine. ‘I hope you weren’t pert. Do you remember what I said about pert parlourmaids?’

  ‘I do, milady.’ Something in the tone of her voice made me shiver.

  ‘Bear it in mind.’ She flicked through the magazine idly and threw it across the room. ‘It’s almost time for high tea. I suppose we had better have the children in, they will want to see their father. Go and tell Nanny, Mouse, and then you can get on with those stockings. The left heel is practically out.’

  I fetched the darning mushroom and the workbasket, and mended until it was time for my own tea. In some ways I preferred the lighter work, but I missed the society and the good-humoured bustle downstairs.

  ‘Here she is!’ cried Mr Craddock. ‘I expect you’ll only require a thin slice of bread and butter and weak tea, now you’re with milady.’

  ‘I’ll eat your share,’ grumbled Ada. ‘Up and down, pass this, fetch that… Milady’s started calling me Bessie, you know.’

  ‘Better than Mouse,’ I said, taking two sandwiches. ‘Anyway, you’re almost done, apart from bells and the front door.’

  ‘True,’ said Ada, biting into a slab of cake.

  For two hours I was at leisure, and I spent it drinking tea and listening to the jokes and gossip in the servants’ hall. Susan had taken a plate to her room, without a word to anyone. I had a new sympathy for her, having seen how lonely her life had been; not a common servant, but not a companion either, she had fitted nowhere. ‘How is Blaze after his trip out today?’ I asked Tom, who was playing dominoes with Mr Craddock.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Tom considered his hand and laid a double three. ‘Easier for two horses, even with six on board.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said, thoughtfully. ‘And then he’d had a whole day to recover after his trips on Friday.’

  ‘He’s a good strong horse,’ said Tom. ‘London and back is nothing to him.’

  ‘All the way to London?’ I gasped. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Like I said, he’s a strong horse. A rest and feed when we got to the theatre, and a slow ride back, and he’s good as new in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, so you took one of the other horses to fetch milady…’

  Tom cursed as Mr Craddock, grinning, laid down a three-two and knocked. ‘No, she was brought back, God knows when. She told me not to wait up. Aha!’ He laid a two-four and knocked, then put his elbows on the table in the manner of someone who meant business.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said, and went to fetch another cup of tea, my mind churning.

  Milady’s bell sounded earlier than usual, at nine o’clock. I found her sitting at the dressing-table, waiting for me. ‘You are early tonight, milady,’ I said, beginning to take the pins from her hair.

  ‘Yes.’ I looked at her in the mirror as I worked a pin from her hair. On each cheek was a high spot of colour. I resolved to be especially careful. ‘Three hundred, please.’ She relaxed as I brushed, counting each ten aloud. When I reached one hundred, she said. ‘The bottom drawer on the left, open it.’

  I put the brush down and did as I was told. The bottom drawer was deep, and held nothing but a bottle and two crystal tumblers. ‘Pour me a drink — a finger-width.’

  I poured a measure into the glass. I couldn’t tell what the drink was; the name meant nothing to me. Milady laughed. ‘It won’t hurt you, you mouse!’ She picked up the glass and held it out to me. ‘Try it.’

  I sniffed the liquid as I raised it to my lips. It was definitely a spirit, and strong. I was no drinker, and I prayed as I drank that it would not cause me to let my guard down. I almost choked as the drink hit the back of my throat. It was harsh, brutal, burning; liquid fire.

  Milady took the tumbler from my hand and drank it down in a gulp. She gasped, and giggled. ‘I feel as if I could conquer the world. Never mind Dutch courage,’ she grinned. ‘Irish whiskey is better.’ She set down the tumbler and motioned towards the bottle. ‘And by God I need it. You may carry on with my hair.’ When I had poured another finger of the whiskey I resumed my brushing, although it seemed to take much longer to reach each ten than it had before. ‘Put it half-up,’ she said, looking at herself in the mirror. ‘Pin the top and sides back, and leave the rest loose. He likes that.’ She picked up her glass and drank half. ‘Aaah.’ She sat back, and giggled. ‘Have you ever eaten an oyster, Mouse?’

  ‘Of course, milady.’ I began to pin her front hair up.

  ‘Have you ever taken one out of its shell?’ Milady was not laughing now. She was watching me in the mirror, eyes bright, pink lips parted.

  ‘No, milady, my husband always did it for me.’ It was half true — while I liked cooked oysters, the sight of raw ones hunching in their barnacled shells revolted me.

  ‘Oh, there’s an art to it.’ Milady set down her glass. ‘First you need a good glove, a mail glove if you can get it, and a sharp, sharp knife. Then you have to judge your oyster, and slip the knife in in exactly the right place, and give it a little wiggle, and then a little twist, and voila! The oyster opens like a treasure chest, ripe for plundering.’ She smiled, her almond eyes closing. ‘Men are oysters. You just need to know where to slip your knife, and when to twist. And then they spill all their precious secrets.’ She spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then she downed the rest of her drink and stood up, wobbling a little. ‘I shall clean my teeth. Then I need lip salve, and perfume, and a little rouge, and you can help undress me. And then you will go and tell Sir William that I wish to see him upstairs.’ She giggled again. ‘You must be as silent about what awaits him upstairs as an unopened oyster.’

  I felt sick to my stomach, and I suspected it was not the whiskey making me nauseous. Yet I had no choice but to prepare milady, and hide the bottle and glasses, before going downstairs to convey her message to Sir William.

  CHAPTER 38

  For once I was up before Ada the next morning. ‘Come along,’ I laughed. ‘It’s not like you to be a slugabed.’

  ‘Another bloody morning.’ Ada leaned on her elbow and blinked. ‘You don’t even have to be up yet, Bessie —’ Exasperation crossed her face. ‘I’ve that to get used to, as well. Ada isn’t my favourite name, but at least I’d got into the habit of it.’

  ‘What’s your real name?’ It was a shock to think that Ada was only Ada by chance.

  She darted a look at me. ‘Rebecca. My name is Rebecca Davies.’ She gave me a shy smile. ‘You?’

  ‘Martha Platt.’ I almost wished I could tell her the truth. But then, what was my real name? I had had so many. ‘You can still call me Bessie, if it’s easier.’

  ‘Same. It’s been so long since anyone but family called me Rebecca, I doubt I’d answer. Go on, you can have first go at the hot water.’

  We scrambled down to breakfast together. It was a grumpy affair, after the comparative ease of Sunday, and everyone seemed to have the weight of a week at work on their shoulders. Even Susan was at table, her mobcap pulled well down, nibbling at her toast.

  ‘Well, those rooms won’t air themselves,’ said Ada eventually, draining her mug and standing up.

  ‘Do you want any help?’ I asked. ‘I could do the flowers.’

  Ada sighed, heavily. ‘Best not. I need to learn how to do them myself, horrid prickly things.’ She was the first to leave the table, and gradually, in ones and twos, the others followed suit.

  ‘Susan, the scullery, please,’ said Cookie, a trifle sharply. Susan shot her a look and slunk off.

  I poured another cup of tea. ‘Is there anything I can help with, Cookie? I can’t really get started till the family are up and about.’

  Cookie shook her head. ‘Take your ease while you can, Bessie. Pour me another, it’ll be bedlam soon enough.’ She slid her cup and saucer across the table, and frowned at the menu she was working on.

  I sipped my drink and toyed with another piece of toast, but I was working on the problem of how to get at the newspaper. It usually came between half past six and a quarter to seven. Perhaps if I lis
tened out, and then when I heard it land, I made up an excuse to go into the reception rooms… I glanced at the clock on the mantel, which said twenty past six. I took a tiny bite from the piece of toast, and yawned. I began to see why Susan had rarely appeared at breakfast when Ada and I were there.

  At last my patience was rewarded by a rattle and a thud. Cookie seemed to have heard nothing. ‘I think milady left her embroidery in the drawing room,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and see.’

  ‘Fetch my recipe book down on the way, would you?’ I lifted the book off the shelf and put it on the table by the menu. ‘Thank you, dear.’ I felt a sudden rush of affection, and guilt for lying to her. But it’s necessary, I told myself.

  The newspaper was still on the mat, and I could hear Ada humming in the drawing room. I crept forward and secured it. Where to take it? My eye fell on the breakfast-room door. That seemed safest. I did not trust the study or the library since my unexpected encounter with Sir William. I hardly breathed as I turned the knob, but it opened with the softest of clicks.

  I riffled through the paper for the personal column, trying not to rustle too much, listening all the while for footsteps which might mean discovery. I found it, and scanned the newsprint for Mercury; and I gasped at the message.

  Queen — Send any further letters to me. Do not let them pass. Mercury.

  Did Mr Poskitt know what he was asking? Milady’s letters would be expected, surely. If they were missed enquiries would be made, and the finger would point at me. My heart sank as I remembered my recent encounter at the post office. The clerk would remember me, and then — I shuddered to think what my punishment would be. I turned to the news section. The first headline said Disaster in the East, in huge letters. Our forces had fallen victim to a surprise attack. Slaughter … a serious setback … enemy intelligence… I closed the paper, and sat down without thinking. Was this the result of milady’s letter? The thought made me feel ill. But it also made me resolute. I had to obey the message, and do what I could to avoid the consequences. And from what milady had said to me last night, I would probably get the chance to do so very soon.