‘No!’ The word came out more forcefully than I had meant, and Wiggins looked at me as if I had slapped him. ‘I mean — I’m not sure I am safe, yet. And if I’m not, he isn’t either. If no-one comes sniffing around, I’ll go later. If I can stay for now,’ I said hastily.
‘I ain’t got no objection,’ said Wiggins, ‘but you’ll have to stay up here. People round here don’t like strange faces, and if they decide to ask questions you won’t like it.’
‘I’ll stay here,’ I said.
‘Yes, you will.’ Wiggins pointed to a tin can in the corner of the room. ‘If you gotta go, go in that. Tip it out the window if you need to. But don’t let anyone see you. Make that food last, there’s no more till I get back.’
I spent the day turning the events of the previous days and weeks over in my mind, and peeping out of the grimy window. I longed to return to Baker Street, but — what sort of welcome could I expect?
Wiggins came back mid-afternoon, as far as I could judge, with a hunk of bread and some bacon. Once he had cooked it on the fire outside, we made a small meal. I asked how his day had gone, but Wiggins shook his head. ‘Reckon I’m getting good at keeping quiet,’ he said, stuffing a large piece of bacon into his mouth.
‘I don’t want to —’ I began.
Wiggins swallowed his mouthful. ‘Where’ve you been, then?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
He gnawed at a chunk of bread. ‘Zackly.’ He swallowed, with an effort. ‘You’ll be able to get off soon, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen nuffink unusual out there, and believe me, I oughter know.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure as I can be.’ He scrutinised me as he chewed. ‘You scared?’
I nodded.
‘’Ang on.’ He went to the corner of the room, lifted a floorboard, and returned with a small bottle wrapped in a dirty cloth. ‘Brandy.’ I uncorked it, took a sip, and gasped as the spirit burned my throat. It was like the burn of the whiskey I had drunk with milady. I corked the bottle hastily and handed it back. ‘He’s missed you, you know. You’ve no need to be scared of that.’
It was not the brandy that made me unable to speak.
‘Time to go, ma’am,’ said Wiggins. He gave me a hand up. ‘The light’s fading, and the gas-lamps will be on soon.’
I put my mangled hat back on. ‘Thank you for looking after me, Wiggins.’
He shuffled his feet. ‘S’all right, ma’am. Any friend of Sherlock ’Olmes…’
I pulled the brass ring from my finger. ‘Here, see what you can get for this. I don’t need it any more. Wait —’ I rummaged in my bag. There were still a few coins left. I divided it in two, and put half into his grimy hand. ‘It isn’t much, but —’
Wiggins’s jagged grin lit up his face. ‘It’s ’preciated, ma’am. Now go on home. Keep to the back streets.’
‘I will.’
Wiggins saw me down the ramshackle stairs and into the street. I looked back once, before I turned the corner, and while Wiggins had retreated into the doorway, I knew he was still there.
I walked quickly, my feet slipping in my boots. I wanted to run straight to Baker Street, but it was too dangerous. A running woman in poor dress would be seen as in trouble, or up to no good, and I would probably find a policeman chasing me in no time. So I walked quickly, eyes down, but with every step I drew nearer to Baker Street. To home. My mind kept straying to what everyone might be doing at this time. Billy and Martha were probably preparing dinner. Dr Watson might be returning from work at Barts Hospital. And Sherlock — where would he be? I found my pace quickening, and reluctantly pushed him away.
It was only a few minutes’ walk. I was coming to streets I knew like the back of my hand — although given what my hands looked like now, the streets seemed more familiar. I huddled into my shawl, in case I saw anyone I knew. My heart thumped in my chest, and sweat ran down my back.
And here was the alley that led into the maze of pathways near Baker Street. I felt as if I had not breathed until I entered its welcome darkness. My steps echoed on the cobbles. I ran my fingers along the cool, rough brick wall. I could barely keep from running.
One more turn, and the familiar back view of townhouses rose before me. 221B was twelve houses down. I could bear it no longer. I ran the last few yards to the back door, rang the bell, and hammered on the door.
Martha opened the door with a face like thunder. ‘What do you mean by making such a noise?’ she snapped. ‘What do you want, anyway? We’ve no scraps.’
I took off my hat. ‘Martha, it’s me.’ I tried to smile, but her stare unnerved me. The enormity of what I had done hit me. I had left everyone without warning, with no clue of my whereabouts. What must they think of me? My knees trembled, and I put a hand on the door-frame to steady myself. ‘Please let me in.’
Martha’s jaw dropped. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside so swiftly that I almost fell, then slammed the door. ‘She’s home!’ she yelled at the top of her lungs. ‘She’s come home!’ I buried my face in her shoulder, and her hug was ferocious in its strength.
Billy came charging over, and his expression changed from welcome to something like alarm. ‘Good God, ma’am! Begging your pardon, but —’
‘Never mind that!’ Martha cried. ‘Go and get the master!’ She helped me to a chair and I sat down gladly. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Billy sped off, bellowing ‘Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!’ Martha mentioned Dr Watson, but I had no ears for her. I only cared about what was going on two storeys up. Then footsteps clattered downstairs, and Sherlock burst into the room.
‘Nell!’ Somehow I was standing up, though I felt myself wobbling, and before I knew it I was in his arms. I could scarcely breathe, he held me so tightly. ‘Where have you — what have you —’ He lifted my chin, and kissed me, and then held me close again. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re back.’ He rested his chin on the top of my head and sighed, a long, shuddering sigh. ‘You’re back.’
‘We’ll just go and see about something,’ said Martha. ‘Come along, Billy.’ She took Billy’s arm and led him away, closing the kitchen door.
Sherlock pulled back a little to look at me. ‘You’re shaking.’
‘I need a hot bath —’
‘You do,’ he said, running a fingertip over my cheek. ‘Certainly before dinner.’
‘Oh, dinner…’ I sighed with pleasure. ‘With proper cutlery, and napkins…’
‘And all dressed up?’ He smiled. ‘Where did you get these clothes?’ He took my hand and examined it, holding it gently, exploring the callouses, the rough places, my ragged nails. ‘What have you been doing to your poor hands?’
‘Hard work,’ I said. ‘It is over now.’
Sherlock studied me for a long time. ‘And — this?’ He ran his hand over my hair.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘One that you’ll tell me?’
‘Yes … but not yet. Not until I’m clean, and wearing my own clothes, and feeling more like myself.’
‘Yes. You look … different.’
‘That was the point. You didn’t even see the worst of it.’
Sherlock touched my face again, and I couldn’t read his expression. ‘Would you have known me, if I had passed you in the street?’ I asked, and my voice sounded small even to myself.
‘I don’t know.’ He met my eyes. ‘I looked for you every day. On the street, in places where I thought you might be. I know you told me not to try and find you, but every day I wondered where you were, what you were doing. Sometimes I thought I saw you … but it never was.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I wish I could have told you.’
‘I know.’ He bent his head to kiss me. ‘But you’re home now.’ He kissed me again, and again, until we were both gasping, half-laughing, on the verge of tears. ‘Come along.’ He opened the kitchen door, and scooped me up in his arms. ‘Let me look after you. We’ll start with that hot bath. I’m sure you’re ab
solutely filthy underneath.’
I rested my head on his shoulder. ‘Will you ask me lots of questions?’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘When you’re ready, Nell.’ He carried me up the stairs as if I weighed nothing at all, and after so much time away, so many worries, so much trouble, my heart felt as light as a feather.
CHAPTER 43
A tap at the door. ‘Nell?’ Sherlock’s voice came softly. ‘Martha is waiting dinner.’
‘Just a moment,’ I called. I knew she was; the clock said it was well past the usual dinner-time. But still I was not ready.
‘May I come in?’ Sherlock asked.
I tried to fluff up my still-damp hair, and sighed. ‘Yes, come in.’
‘Dr Watson is home, and we have told him the good news —’ he began, then stopped. ‘What is it, Nell?’
‘Nothing fits.’ I plucked at the loose bodice of my dress. ‘My dresses look wrong. I — I don’t feel like myself any more.’ I sat on the edge of the bed and buried my face in my hands. ‘My hair —’ I pulled at the curling strand that had fallen forward, ‘everything.’
Sherlock sat beside me on the bed. ‘Then we’ll get you things that do fit, and you can get a wig, if you wish.’ He stroked my hair.
The tale poured out of me; Mr Poskitt’s telegram, the proposition, the interview, milady, the house, Sir William and the newspaper, the servants, the incident with Susan, the letter, the trip to London… I had not realised what a relief it would be to tell the story, to let it go. Sherlock took my hand early in the narrative, and his grip tightened at certain parts of the story; then he would recall himself, and slacken it.
When I stopped speaking he was silent for a while. I glanced across; his face was inscrutable. ‘What are you thinking?’
He looked up, and smiled, but it faded quickly. ‘I am not sure I could have done it.’
‘Of course you could. It was mostly about working hard and putting up with things.’
He smiled, and this time it stayed. ‘Exactly.’ He touched my cheek, and his hand strayed to the nape of my neck. ‘How does it feel?’
‘My hair?’ I reached behind, and our fingers joined. ‘Odd. Light. I can put it up, just.’ I shivered as I remembered Susan’s cropped skull. ‘I must buy a wig tomorrow.’
‘It really isn’t that bad —’
‘Not for me!’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I made a promise to someone.’
‘Very well,’ he said, laughing. ‘Tomorrow you may buy whatever you like; but tonight you must have dinner with Dr Watson and me, and be waited on.’ He lifted me to my feet. ‘Now put your hair up and make yourself respectable, young lady.’
I combed, and pinned, and put on earrings and a necklace, and found my little slippers. ‘Something is missing,’ said Sherlock, eyeing my left hand.
‘Oh!’ My other hand flew to it. ‘I sent it, in my letter —’
‘You did.’ Sherlock slipped his finger inside his collar and drew out a fine chain. My ring was suspended on it.
I slid the ring from the chain. It was warm, from him. I kissed it, read the inscription, and slipped it onto my finger. It fitted a little more loosely than before, but it still fitted. Sherlock touched the ring. ‘There,’ he said softly. ‘Now we are complete.’
***
Everyone was pleased to see me downstairs, and very complimentary, to the point where I wondered if Sherlock had briefed them. We began with drinks in the parlour, and I asked Martha and Billy to join us. Dr Watson beamed. ‘A toast!’ he cried. ‘To the safe return of Mrs Hudson!’
I grinned. ‘I haven’t been called that for a while,’ I said, as we clinked glasses.
‘Pardon me asking, ma’am, but what have you been doing all this time?’ Billy’s eyes were like saucers, and I knew that he was anticipating a good yarn.
‘I went undercover, and I was a servant in a big house.’
‘You were a servant, ma’am?’ Martha looked suspicious. ‘What sort of servant?’
‘A parlourmaid, Martha, and I was a lady’s maid for a short while.’
‘So you opened doors, and dusted, and did the silver, and — did you wait at table?’
‘I did. I even ironed the newspaper.’
‘Good heavens,’ Martha said no more, but once or twice I caught her studying my hands.
We went through to dinner. ‘Ah, excellent,’ said Dr Watson, lifting the lid of the soup tureen. ‘May I offer you soup, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Please.’ It was an effort to eat slowly, daintily, for I was so used to slurping up with the rest of the servants. ‘What have I missed?’ I asked.
Sherlock held up a hand while he swallowed. ‘Firstly you have solved a mystery for me. Mycroft called yesterday to apologise.’
‘Has he got his job back?’
‘He has, and all suspicion wiped from the record. He thought I had something to do with it, which was a little embarrassing.’ He grinned. ‘I must admit I did wonder whether you were behind it.’
I grinned back. ‘Mr Poskitt deserves much of the credit.’
‘Yes, and he will be rewarded. In fact Mycroft told me, in confidence —’ Sherlock gave a significant look, ‘— that they have been asked to consider a promotion.’
A tap at the door. ‘Are you ready for the lamb chops?’ called Billy.
‘I am,’ I called.
We were quiet while Billy brought the dishes. ‘Have you been busy, Dr Watson?’ I asked, helping myself to a sizeable chop.
Dr Watson sat back. ‘I have been working at the hospital, and also attending on Mr Stanley.’
‘Oh! How is he?’
‘Much improved. I prescribed rest and quiet, combined with electrotherapy, and he is sitting up and taking in his surroundings. He recognises his wife, and he can speak a little. He is easily tired, though; the nurse tells me that he still sleeps most of the day.’
‘That is a great improvement.’
‘It is; but I doubt that Mr Stanley will ever make a full recovery.’ Dr Watson sighed, and helped himself to a chop. ‘He will never be able to tell us what happened — the shock would either send him back into full catatonia, or kill him outright.’
I shivered. ‘And you, Sherlock, what have you been up to?’
‘This and that,’ he said, airily. ‘Nothing of note, really.’ The conversation petered out, and we addressed ourselves to our food.
After dinner we did not separate, but all went to the parlour. I took a novel from the bookcase — what a pleasure to be able to read openly! — and curled up on the sofa, and as I did I recalled milady. Where would she be now? I remembered her words when I had caught her stealing: I should be sent away for a rest cure. Her insolent, privileged face came between me and the pages, and I closed the book.
I looked up, and met Sherlock’s eyes. ‘Would you like anything?’
‘Perhaps some tea?’
‘I shall go down.’ He sprang up and went out.
I waited until I was sure he was out of earshot. ‘How was Sherlock while I was gone?’ I asked Dr Watson, in an undertone.
‘Frantic, at first.’ Dr Watson’s voice, though low, had the same professional detachment as when he had spoken of Mr Stanley. ‘I had to stop him from reporting you missing.’
‘Did he —?’ I looked up to the consulting room above.
Dr Watson shook his head. ‘I threw away his syringe and told him that if I even suspected him of taking anything stronger than brandy, I would have him admitted.’ He sighed. ‘We got through.’
‘Thank you, John.’
He studied me for a long moment, then bobbed his head in a funny little bow. ‘As for you, Nell, I prescribe good food, fresh air, idleness, and time with your friends.’
Footsteps sounded outside — rather loud footsteps — and Sherlock came in. ‘Tea is ordered,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Have you two been catching up?’
‘We have indeed,’ I said, exchanging glances with Dr Watson.
I jumped as the doorbell pealed. S
herlock saw it. ‘You don’t have to see anyone, Nell, if you’d rather not.’ He moved to sit by me, and took my hand.
We heard voices at the door, and Martha came in. ‘Mr Poskitt,’ she announced. ‘What shall I say to him?’
I shifted closer to Sherlock. ‘Is he alone?’
‘He is, ma’am.’
Sherlock squeezed my hand. ‘Then show him in, Martha, please,’ I said. I would have to face him some time, and it might as well be now.
‘I thought I might find you here, Mrs Hudson.’ Mr Poskitt had an unaccustomed twinkle in his eye. ‘I came to update you on proceedings.’
‘Tell me.’ I leaned forward, and I could see that Sherlock and Dr Watson were as curious as I was, but any revelations Mr Poskitt had were postponed by Martha, with the tea-tray. She poured out for us, adding milk and sugar as required, and perhaps I was mistaken, but she seemed to do it more carefully than usual.
‘So,’ said Mr Poskitt, sitting back composedly with his teacup. ‘After we left you, Mrs Hudson, Lady Chambers and Professor Moriarty were taken separately for questioning. Moriarty refused to speak without a lawyer present; but Lady Chambers told us everything she knew.’ His mouth twisted a little. ‘Everything. I shall not go into it all, but we went to find the man Lawrence at Wandsworth Prison, as a result of her information. We found him dead, poisoned, and a smell of jasmine in the air. Moriarty’s networks move quickly, and with fatal effect.’
I shuddered. ‘Milady’s jasmine perfume…’
‘Quite,’ said Mr Poskitt. ‘We could never have connected Mr Stanley’s abduction and the military leaks were it not for your observation, Mrs Hudson. Lady Chambers told us that the perfume was a gift from the Professor for services rendered.’ I blinked. ‘As it turns out, Moriarty has interests in Asia which go far beyond jasmine…’ He gave me a sharp glance. ‘I am saying more than I ought.’
‘What happens now?’ asked Sherlock.
‘We are in the process of working that out,’ said Mr Poskitt, and I got the impression that his ‘we’ was of a royal nature, and possibly included the entire Cabinet. ‘Nothing will be public, of course.’
In Sherlock's Shadow (Mrs Hudson & Sherlock Holmes Book 2) Page 23
