by Amy Thomas
“Billy has returned to the hotel to tender his resignation, for it is time for him to return here permanently, and Watson has business at his bank. He still intends to return with you to Sussex if you find the idea convenient.”
“I do,” I answered. “I would be pleased if you would join us.”
“I cannot,” my friend replied. “I have just received a letter that requires my immediate attention. As long as nothing further arises, I will come in a month’s time, when I will hope to see new hives brimming with life.”
Holmes’s suggestion rankled with me at first. Beekeeping had been more than a hobby; it had been my life, the thing that had given me a reason to rise every morning. The death of the bees had felt like the end of something, and I had not thought I would ever return to it after the pain of hearing the hives go silent. I now realised that I wanted very much to begin again. My life in Sussex had been wrapped up in the lives of the hives, and my feeling of rightness with the world had come to depend on my daily tasks as a beekeeper. After my husband’s death, I had existed in a void for quite some time, and the bees had helped to extract me from it and set me once again on firm ground. I was no longer the broken woman who had retreated to the village. The bees would mean something different now, and the hives would be a symbol of the life I now loved.
“You’re right,” I admitted to Holmes. “I ought to start afresh.”
“I am sorry that your loss has been at least partially on my account.”
“I blame Calhoun, not you,” I said.
***
That afternoon, I received an elegant note from Sir Lloyd Allen, asking me to sup with him in the Savoy Hotel’s dining room that evening. I replied in the affirmative, then returned to my room and donned my pink gown, the one fine dress I had brought with me from Sussex. The grand gown Francois had made for me I had put away, to be taken home with me when I journeyed back to the cottage on the hill. I supposed I would likely never wear it again. Events that warranted such finery never came to Fulworth, and to wear it at a village party would, I knew, be seen as an insult to my poorer neighbours. I didn’t mind. It was a memory, a symbol of my time in London. I had come to the city grieving for my bees, and since that time, I had learned to grieve a girl and a journalist I had never known. I had feared, and I had known what it was to wonder if even Sherlock Holmes could unravel the horror. This evening, I simply wished to let colour and scent and taste overtake me.
I met Sir Allen at the entrance to the Savoy, and he guided me gently into the dining room; I was conscious of the fact that we looked well together. Strangely, I now knew nearly every member of the staff I saw, but we had returned to our separate spheres, as if some kind of invisible curtain had been pulled between us. In desperate times, it had been pulled aside to allow fraternisation, but now that the case was over, we were separated once more.
“Beautiful,” I said, as we stepped into the room. Its elaborate wooden paneling, sumptuous, deep-coloured carpets, and soft live music delighted my senses, and I felt happiness bubbling up in me for the first time in many days.
“I am glad you like it, my dear,” said the solicitor, pulling out an intricately-carved wooden chair for me. I sat down and contemplated the evening’s menu, which had the usual array of courses never even heard of in the country. I was particularly excited to see tenderloin of beef, for I had never been one to turn down a large slice of meat, as unladylike as the preference might be.
We began to eat, and Sir Allen regaled me with tales of his clients great and small. I laughed heartily and felt that I had not enjoyed myself so much for a long time. Finally, when we had reached a course of sumptuous apple dumplings, he took a long drink of his wine and sat forward in his chair.
“You have been a most charming listener this evening, but you must wonder why I have asked you to have dinner with me on the eve before you are to return home.”
“I did wonder,” I said, “but I am having a grand time.”
“There is - no particularly delicate way to ask this,” he answered, absently fingering his goblet. “Will you marry me, my dear?”
For once, his twinkling eyes were completely in earnest. I sighed. “You are a lovely man.”
“This is a disastrous beginning!” he said. “When the lady begins with a sigh and a compliment, things don’t tend to end well.”
I was tempted. I could easily imagine my life as the wife of eminent solicitor Sir Lloyd Allen. He was wealthy, well-regarded, and possessed of a personality I found charming and delightful. There was nothing against it - except for the fact that I did not love him, and I knew that I never could.
“I will tell you the things that do not enter into my choice,” I said. “You are neither too old, nor unattractive, nor deficient in any respect of character or personality. I do not care if it is indelicate to say; I like you very much. I should be very happy to have you as my doting uncle or my elder brother.”
“Doting uncle! Elder brother!” He shook his head and widened his eyes in mock horror.
“The problem is, Sir Allen - ”
“That you do not love me,” he finished. “I knew it. I have always known it would be so, from our first meeting in that cursed Newgate Prison. I knew that you were destined to find me a terribly charming friend and that I was destined to fall horribly in love with you.”
“Please don’t say that,” I answered. “It’s so very bleak.”
“Not at all, my dear,” said the solicitor, smiling. “I’ve been in love before. I won’t be dishonest and claim I haven’t. My wife Ariadne was a goddess, and after her I have had one or two entanglements. They never came to anything either, and I’m hardly the worse for wear. I suppose I would sound more gallant if I claimed that your refusal would likely end all meaningful joys in life, but that would be shockingly disingenuous.
I took one of his warm hands in mine and squeezed it. “Thank you.”
“For what? I hardly deserve praise for discomfiting you with an unwanted proposal.”
“For choosing me,” I said. “You know that I am a widow. My marriage, and the years before it, are parts of my life of which I rarely speak, but, Sir Allen, I thank you for introducing me to the feeling of being cared for by a worthy man. It is not one which I have known before.”
“Have you not?” he asked, looking at me for a long moment. At the time, I had no idea what he meant, though his words and look would return to me much later, and I would understand them better.
***
After dinner and a remarkably friendly parting given the circumstances, I prepared to enter one of the ascending rooms to make my way to my bed, when I was surprised by a hand on my arm and found Wiggins beside me, smiling in his usual way, but with perhaps a little more gravity than before behind his gaze. “Dr Watson said you wanted to see me?” he said, his tone indicating a question.
“I do indeed,” I said. “I thought you’d come to me tomorrow, but I am glad to see you now. Perhaps you’d like to walk with me for a little while.” I took his arm and let him lead me back through the crowd of hotel guests and towards the street. “You’ll be as tall as Mr Holmes soon,” I observed. “Have you ever thought about what you might want to do when you’re older?”
“I don’t know, Miss,” he said, staring at me with wide blue eyes as if the thought had never occurred to him. “My people are gone. They were all thieves, except me. I guess I thought I’d always work for Mr Holmes. I make money with things here and there.”
“You’re clever,” I said. “Mr Holmes knows it, or he wouldn’t have employed you all this time. Have you never wanted to do something, if you had all the money in the world?”
He thought hard for a moment. “I - I’ve always liked the thought of being a policeman,” he finally admitted, “but not one of those that just walks about and watches. I’d want to be one who goes to the murders
, like Mr Holmes does, or Inspector Lestrade, and finds the clues.” This speech had obviously cost him great effort, and he stopped speaking abruptly and breathed heavily.
“I would like to help you,” I said.
“You, Miss?” His face looked intensely bewildered in the light of a street lamp.
“It is not generally considered polite to talk about certain things, but I don’t care,” I said. “I have a great deal of money, and I want to use some of it.”
“Why?” he asked.
“A long time ago, Mr Holmes did something for me, and I have never had a chance to repay his kindness. I would like to do so by helping someone who is important to him. I’m also grateful that you’ve looked after me so well these past few days, at great risk to yourself.”
If any bystanders had looked at us then, they would have seen a gangly boy and a short woman dancing a mad jig along a London street. Wiggins didn’t let go of me until he had twirled me around enough to make me breathless.
“I take it you’re pleased,” I said slyly, trying to catch my breath again.
He laughed. “You’re the queen, just like he always says.”
“What?” I asked. “Who says?”
“Mr Holmes,” he answered. “He says The Woman is the queen of the bees. I never knew what that meant, but I reckon only a queen would do something like this.”
I stopped dead and looked at him with mock seriousness. “Mr Holmes is, as you know, always right about such things, and you must never forget what he says.” At that, we both laughed. I sent him away then, and he scampered off, grinning to himself. In truth, I had no idea if Wiggins would make something of himself, but I believed that he should have the opportunity to try.
***
I returned to the hotel, and this time I asked one of the porters to find Billy for me, for he was spending his last night carrying the luggage of the rich and wanton. I had decided to repay my debts all at once. In a few moments, he found me in the hotel vestibule. “Will you come and speak to me briefly?” I asked. “I will repay you for the time you waste.”
“That’s unnecessary,” he said. “Mr Holmes takes care of that. In any case, I’m to return to Baker Street tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” I said, following him to a sofa that was situated in a quiet corner of the lobby.
“What did you wish to speak about?” he asked.
“First of all, I want to thank you,” I answered. “I came to London without any idea of the horror that awaited me and everyone else connected with Holmes. You looked after me at personal risk and endured a great deal. For that I am very grateful.”
“It was no trouble,” he said, blushing.
“I would also like to thank you for taking care of Holmes,” I said. “I know that he would never admit it, but he relies on you.” At this, Billy smiled a genuine smile, and it lit up his usually-serious face. “I hope that you will stay with him,” I added.
“I intend to,” he answered, and that was all.
As I went up to my room, I was pleased with my night’s work. I had succeeded in giving Wiggins and Billy what each desired - for the first, a chance to use his talents to become something in the world, and for the second, the assurance that he was appreciated and needed. I knew that I did not have Holmes’s abilities, but I could observe people and understand their motivations. Once upon a time, it had given me the chance to get ahead in the world in ways I had no desire to do any more. Now I was glad to use what I knew to help my friends. That is what Wiggins and Billy had become. I had only known them in the past from Dr Watson’s stories and Holmes’s comments, but now they had become part of my world as well. I knew that I might never see them again, but I was glad I had known them for a brief time.
As soon as I reached my room, I drew a bath. I didn’t bother to call the maid, glad for the solitude to collect my thoughts. I finally thought about returning home to Sussex, and my life there seemed almost as unreal as London had seemed before my journey. With a thrill of pleasure, I thought of my small house and my spare housekeeper and the tiny village where my neighbours resided. I thought, too, of my beehives, now silent, and how they would hum no more. But even that no longer depressed me. I would find joy in beginning again.
Sleep did not come quickly that night. My heart was filled with a mixture of the joyful warmth of knowing I was cared for and the cold sadness of refusal. Nevertheless, when morning came, I realised that I had slept quite well, free from the fears that had plagued me during the case.
***
Dr Watson and I left for Sussex the following morning and reached the nearest station to Fulworth in the middle of the day. Mrs Turner was standing in front of the platform when we approached. I stole a furtive look at my companion, and I saw a smile come over his face that was like pure sunshine. “She looks well,” I said quietly.
“Yes,” he answered, “very well indeed.”
If I had hoped for a passionate embrace, I would have been disappointed, but I knew them too well for that. I was very pleased with the incandescent look they exchanged and the sight of their two hands meeting.
“I take it you are too weary from your journey to enjoy a walk upon the Downs,” I heard my housekeeper say.
“Certainly not,” the doctor replied. “It’s just what I need after stuffy hours in a train.” I surprised myself by realising that I was blinking back tears.
The two returned in early evening, and the doctor took to his guest room, the better to give his lady time to speak to me. “I must leave you, Miss Adler,” she said, in the same businesslike tone with which she said everything. “I have agreed to marry Dr Watson.”
“I am very pleased for you,” I said, meaning it, “but even more pleased for him.” At that, my housekeeper blushed and smiled, and onto her thin face came, for a moment, the look of besotted girlhood.
“I will find you another to fill my place,” she said.
“You know that no one can do so,” I said, endeavouring to match her directness, “but I welcome your recommendation.”
The next morning, I penned a letter to Holmes.
Dear Holmes,
I write to inform you that your flatmate is engaged to my housekeeper. I cannot find it in me to begrudge him, since I know that she will make an excellent bride. I realise now, as the end approaches, that I have never adequately thanked you for the gift of Mrs Turner. She is a rare woman, and I have been happy with her as my companion. Dr Watson asked if I intended to employ another. Perhaps I will, but I cannot think that anyone will do as capable a job as Mrs Turner, unless Mrs Hudson should one day decide to retire to Sussex. I expect I will see you at the wedding, but if you should find yourself with time to spare before it, you know that my door is, as ever, open to you.
I remain your friend,
Irene Adler
Mrs Hudson did retire to the Downs one day, but that is another story for another time.
Epilogue: Irene
A week after my return to Fulworth, I received a letter from Holmes, informing me that Sergeant Keating had volunteered to assist with a case in Sussex at the time my bees had first contracted their disease. The malady had been introduced by no particularly mysterious means; he had purchased diseased bees from another beekeeper and introduced them to my hives in the dead of night, hoping they would transmit the bacteria. Calhoun was, of course, behind the plot. His association with Keating and, by extension, Lestrade, had given him the ability to learn a great deal about my friend’s life and habits, including his association with me. He had not, Holmes wrote, had any assurance that the bees would actually become infected, but the plan had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Keating had paid one of Fulworth’s most notorious ne’er-do-wells to report my movements to him, and Calhoun had, as a result, known of my journey to London, which had inflamed his desire to impress Holmes with his
power. Such was the simple explanation at the heart of the whole matter.
The young man and two associates were sentenced to death. As he had promised, Holmes testified to Keating’s cooperation with the investigation, and the policeman was sentenced to many years in prison but escaped the noose. Lestrade, my friend wrote, was beside himself with fury that he had been deceived and as a result was almost humble in his manner for some time after.
Epilogue: Holmes
One month and three days after the conclusion of the Calhoun case, Sherlock Holmes found himself on the Sussex Downs, facing two beehives that were pristine and humming with life.
The Woman was silent beside him, and after a long while, he saw that tears had sprung to her eyes. She let them come. “The sound is beautiful,” she said. The detective stood next to her, very close, still as a statue.
“You will be happy again,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied, “I believe I already am.”
The Woman reached up to pin a lock of hair that had escaped from its fastener to tickle her cheek, but the detective’s hand prevented her. He touched the chestnut strands and smiled to himself.
“It has escaped. Let it be,” he said. So she did.
About the Author
Amy Thomas met Sherlock Holmes around the age of ten, when she was scared out of her wits by an audio recording of “The Speckled Band.” From there, she went on to experience heartbreak on Dr. Watson’s behalf, only to be told by her older sister that Sherlock Holmes hadn’t died after all. Several years later, the gift of a contemporary novel starring Sherlock Holmes rekindled her love of the detective. She re-read the original stories, and a lifelong passion was born.
Amy is a graduate of RegentUniversity, where she majored in professional communication. When she’s not podcasting with the Baker Street Babes or writing a novel, she works as an administrative support professional.
An avid knitter and crocheter, Amy has knitted a deerstalker hat and crocheted miniature versions of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and James Moriarty. She also enjoys reading and reviewing Holmes-related literature.
