The Happy Family Facade

by Allison Osborne

  “Mrs. Johnston mentioned her son,” Irene said as Joe pulled out of the alley. “Then, she later mentioned Mr. Johnston’s children.”

  “Could it be a slip of the tongue?” Joe asked through a mouthful of cake.

  Irene shrugged. “Possibly, but I doubt it.”

  Joe handed her the last bite. “Could there possibly be another child? A cousin?

  Irene popped the piece of cake into her mouth. “Miss Flagner never mentioned another child visiting, or even another child being brought up. Perhaps it was just a slip of the tongue.”

  She wasn’t convinced and didn’t like that theory settling without some sort of answer.

  “Tomorrow, we will show up with equipment and demand to finish our work if we have to. I need to see what’s behind that locked door. But first, we must go to the library.”

  “As you command,” Joe said gleefully.

  * * * * *

  Irene flipped through another round of newspapers and turned up nothing except advertisements for Johnston Rentals.

  She and Joe had been in the library for over an hour, attempting to secure an article about the Johnston family. They had only come across ads and the occasional article on some new development Mr. Johnston was making on the real estate front. But those articles told very little about his personal life and most of them didn’t even feature a picture.

  The library was eerily silent with everyone most likely tucked up for the afternoon, avoiding the small spattering of rain that dotted London.

  Beside Irene, Joe sighed. “I cannot find anything, and some of these archives seem incomplete.”

  “I found that to be the case as well,” Irene agreed. “Days here and there are missing as if pulled from the collection completely.”

  One of the librarians walked by, and Irene called to her. “Miss, we have a question.”

  The woman turned, smiling, and when her eyes landed on Joe, her smile grew, and she hurried over, subtly adjusting her hair scarf.

  “Of course,” she remarked sweetly, “What can I do for you?”

  Irene caught the small upward turn of Joe’s lips but chose to ignore it, despite the curiosity brewing inside her. “Where are the rest of these papers? There are some missing.”

  The librarian nodded and sighed, disappointed. “We noticed some of them went missing a few months ago. There wasn’t many that were taken, and they appeared to be random, so we didn’t put too much thought into it. We do have an electronic system with archives in it if you’re interested. It’s not complete yet because entering all the different papers in there is time-consuming, to say the least, but we’re getting there.”

  “Hm.” Irene pursed her lips, gaze moving to the big computing box at the end of the aisle. Joe picked up her slack and said a lovely thank you to the librarian.

  “Oh, anytime,” she giggled. “Good luck with your investigation.”

  With a final wave at Joe, she walked away to complete some filing at the information desk.

  “Investigation?” Irene repeated. “How does she know what we’re doing?”

  Joe raised his hands in an attempt to ease her suspicion. “You’ve sent me to the library more than once for a case, and I’ve asked her a few times for help under the guise that we are investigators.”

  Irene raised a brow at Joe, and his cheeks reddened. He shooed her toward the archive computer.

  “Let’s just forget about it and keep searching,” he said.

  “I didn’t think you socialized with anyone when you left Baker Street,” Irene said curiously and made her way over to the equipment. “I thought you just kept your head down and mumbled away to yourself.”

  “You don’t have much faith in me, do you?” Joe huffed.

  “I have every faith in you.” She patted his back. “It’s you who doesn’t have faith in yourself.”

  Joe huffed again, but Irene saw a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth. She motioned to the stool in front of the screen.

  “Sit,” she commanded. “You are a faster typist than me. If there was one skill my father and I lacked, it was the ability to type quickly.”

  “It’s a good thing you became an investigator and not a secretary.”

  Irene snorted in disgust. “Could you imagine me as a secretary?”

  “No,” Joe laughed.

  Irene shared the chuckle with him as he sat on the small stool. She took up a spot behind him, resting her forearm on his shoulder to steady herself as she leaned forward.

  “Where do I start?” Joe asked.

  Irene pressed her finger to her lips, thinking.

  “Picnic in the park,” she said, suddenly remembering Miss Hudson’s words. “Go to nineteen thirty June.”

  Joe scrolled through all the papers and found nothing on the Johnstons.

  “Try thirty-one,” Irene said.

  As Joe scrolled, Irene kept her eyes peeled for anything even remotely related to the Johnstons. They eventually came to an article from the end of June 1931:

  JOHNSTON RENTALS HOSTS FIFTH ANNUAL PICNIC AMONG CLEAR SKIES

  Joe slowed the scrolling, bringing the article into the centre of the screen.

  “Read, Joe,” she said before pacing behind him as he paraphrased the article.

  “More than a hundred people turned out,” Joe skimmed. “Even more during the public games as fundraising started... happy families... pony rides... Mr. Johnston, pictured here with his two children–”

  He cut off his words as Irene grabbed his shoulder.

  “Where’s the picture?” she demanded.

  He scrolled down and brought the photo into focus. Mr. Johnston, appearing much younger and dapper, stood on the cut lawn of the park. He smiled, gazing down at the two children beside him. Hughie, as told by the clean-cut hair and small eyes, held his left hand.

  A young girl, maybe four or five years old, held Mr. Johnston’s right hand. Her ringlets were perfect, her dress expensive, and she grinned up at her father.

  “Oh my god,” Joe gasped. “He has another child?”

  Something didn’t sit quite right with Irene. She brought the camera out from her purse and took a picture of the screen.

  “We must get home,” she said. “I have a theory I want to test.”

  * * * * *

  Irene set the freshly developed photograph of the article next to the picture she took in Mr. Johnston’s bedroom of the woman she assumed was Chloe from his bedside table.

  “This beauty mark,” she began, pointing to both the woman’s face and the small girl’s. “It sits right at her jaw.”

  “What beauty mark?” Joe looked at the picture. “Oh my, I thought that was a dot on the film, but it is the same mark. This is the same girl. What happened to her?”

  “Maybe our theory of her being from another mother may check out,” Irene said, moving swiftly to their investigation board. “Mrs. Johnston told me she had a son. Yet, she said Mr. Johnston loves his children. Plural. Perhaps this child is from another mother.”

  “But why hire Miss Flagner?” Joe asked. “A woman who looks practically identical to his daughter.”

  “He misses her.” Irene shrugged, attempting to think of another reason.

  Joe sighed and scratched at his beard. “There is something else, though, that you might not have considered.”

  Irene folded her arms across her chest and tried to figure out what Joe would say before he spoke. Surely there wasn’t something she missed. The case wasn’t solved, but she could run every scenario through her head faster than either of them could speak it.

  “Divorce is more common now,” Joe continued. “But it is still rare. And even rarer fifteen years ago. A man with that big of a reputation probably wouldn’t have wanted to flaunt two children from two different mothers at a company picnic.”

  Irene grunted, nodding at Joe. She had not thought of that.

  “So, both children are Mrs. Johnston’s,” she allowed. “But where is the daughter? She obviousl
y grew to be an adult, but where could she have gone?”

  “Perhaps she died in the war,” Joe offered.

  “But why all this secrecy that seems to surround her?”

  Joe shrugged. “I am not sure. Either way, Mrs. Johnston didn’t want to be a mother it seems, so that would explain why she has no pictures of either of her children.”

  Like a light bulb flashing to life, Irene had a thought.

  “What if neither of the children belongs to Mrs. Johnston?”

  “Okay, now I know you are as tired as I am,” Joe said. “Have you ever seen a child look more like their mother than Hughie does of Mrs. Johnston?”

  Irene groaned. “Dammit, you are correct, Joe.”

  The door opened, and Miss Hudson tut-tutted.

  “Language, dear,” she chided.

  “Miss Hudson?” Joe stood instantly as if something were wrong with the landlady. “It is after ten. What are you doing awake? Are you alright?”

  Miss Hudson frowned at the photos scattered all over the table. “I got a whiff of those chemicals and wanted to make sure you didn’t dump them in my flowers in the front garden. I will not have them die off before they’re supposed to because of your chemistry.”

  “We will not,” Joe comforted her. “Don’t worry.”

  “Oh, I don’t worry about you, love,” she said. “It’s our lovely Miss Scatterbrain over there.”

  Irene was about to make a comeback to that gentle insult, but she changed instead to a question she’d been wondering for years but never thought to ask until now.

  “Did you ever want children of your own, Miss Hudson?”

  “Irene...” Joe groaned, but Miss Hudson waved him off.

  “It’s quite alright, Doctor,” she chuckled. “I’ve been asked worse questions by her, I assure you.”

  She sat on the couch and Joe immediately sat across from her, ready to hear her tale.

  Irene, meanwhile, sighed inwardly. She should’ve known the question would warrant an entire story instead of a straight-forward answer, and she took up her spot on Joe’s armrest.

  “Of course I wanted children,” Miss Hudson started. “When I came to Baker Street well before you arrived to help my mother look after Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson, I was kept terribly busy. Then my mother passed, and you came along in the spring of nineteen-sixteen. By then, I wasn’t married and too old to have proper children of my own, but still young enough to keep up with a small child when it was called for. You had your father, and lord knows I couldn’t persuade him on how to parent you one way or another, so I got to teach what he couldn’t, and spoil you like a grandmother. God has funny ways of doing things, and if I ended up with children of my own, I would’ve never come to work for your father and look after you.”

  Irene stared at Miss Hudson, suddenly aware of just how prevalent the landlady had been in her life. Memories flooded her mind, overwhelming her, and she needed to distract herself and move on before they overtook her, and she did or said something she didn’t want to.

  “I think you did a fine job,” Irene said.

  Miss Hudson laughed and stood. “Oh, trust me, there were times I wanted to wring Mr. Holmes’ neck for what he let you get into, and get away with. You may remember him as a hard-willed, unflappable father, but all you had to do was bat those eyes at him, and you had that poor genius of a man wrapped around your finger. You did not want for anything, young lady. Now, I’m off to bed. Come give me a hug since you’ve kept me up this late.”

  Irene began to protest. “Miss Hudson, I–”

  Joe gave her a playful shove, and she toppled off the chair. Throwing him a glare, she gave Miss Hudson a hug, and the old lady planted a swift kiss on her cheek, leaving a print of face cream on Irene’s skin.

  She released Irene and blew Joe a kiss. “That look is quite suitable for you, Doctor. Makes you seem rugged and strong.”

  Miss Hudson left, and as soon as the door was closed, Joe let out a laugh. Irene spun around to him and grabbed a pillow from the couch, whipping it at him and hitting him right in the face.

  “Miss Hudson will be disappointed when you are clean-shaven and scruffy-haired again.”

  Joe stroked his long stubble. “I may keep the beard.”

  “No, you won’t,” Irene said with certainty. “You grimace every time you see your reflection, and you don’t suit that rugged, leading man look, anyway.”

  “Lovely.” He tossed the pillow back at her.

  She deftly blocked it with her forearm and sent it sailing straight up then back down onto the coffee table.

  “I’m not engaging with this anymore,” Joe said, a grin on his face. “I’m taking my rugged good looks and I’m going to bed.”

  “As am I,” Irene said. “Tomorrow, we get through that locked door.”

  “Shall we contact Lestrade?” Joe asked. “This is starting to feel like a missing person’s case.”

  “Not yet.” Irene waved him off. “Let’s put some more clues down on paper before we involve Scotland Yard.”

  Joe nodded in agreement before heading towards the door. He paused, one hand on the knob, and when he spoke, his voice was kind and quiet.

  “Oh, and for what it’s worth,” he said. “I think you turned out quite nicely for someone with a non-traditional upbringing.”

  A wave of exhaustion washed over Irene as his words hit her. She looked at her father’s chair piled with cushions, then at the table full of photographs, before finally landing on her bow and arrow hanging over her desk by the window.

  Joe caught her hints and laughed. “Those are simple quirks. They don’t count.”

  He gave her a soft smile, and her ears warmed.

  “Good night, Joe.”

  * * * * *

  Irene didn’t dream often, but when she did, it took the form of memories from her past, sweeping over her like a tsunami. She theorized that it was the only time her brain was in full control, and she couldn’t actively prevent her thoughts from moving like a runaway train.

  This particular night her brain conjured up a memory from eighteen years ago.

  Irene was twelve years old at the time. She’d snuck into Uncle John’s room to peruse his medical texts. Father had just received a client, and she was tempted to listen in, but she only had limited time before Uncle John came home and chased her from his room, saying that certain medical textbooks are to be saved for when she was older and understood more.

  A bit of commotion stirred in the living room, and she was on her feet immediately. She placed the textbook carefully back on the shelf and started quietly down the stairs.

  A woman’s voice came from behind the closed door as Irene reached the bottom step, moving as softly as she could. Pressing her ear to the door, she listened to the conversation between Father and his guest.

  “I simply will not allow it.” Father’s voice had a sharp, angry edge to it. “You cannot just show up here every ten years because you are bored and suddenly remember you have a daughter.”

  Irene’s knees buckled, and she sat on the bottom step, heart racing. Her mother. She’d never met her mother before. Excitement stirred in her belly in anticipation or perhaps the chance to finally see her mother face to face.

  “She is mine,” her mother snapped. “And I demand-”

  “You cannot demand a thing, Susan.” Father’s voice pitched up as he snapped his words, rolling his ‘R’s with vexation, forgoing any contractions. “And you cannot take her with you. Why do you even...”

  He trailed off. At first, Irene worried that her mother had done something to him, but then he spoke, words so quiet that Irene moved right to the door, ear against the wood.

  “Your husband wants a child,” Father finally said. “And you do not want to bear another one.”

  Silence filled the room and Irene knew she should run. At any moment, her mother could rush out the door, but she was frozen, wanting to hear every word of the conversation.

  “Of cours
e I don’t want to birth another child,” her mother hissed. “She already ruined my body. Why would I want it ruined more? If I bring her home, then my husband gets the daughter he’s been wanting, and I don’t have to go through that again.”

  Irene sunk to the ground, eyes filling with tears. What did that mean? Her mother only wanted her as a token? As a present to give to someone else to serve some traditional family need?

  The sadness turned to anger at this woman who was now demanding her like an animal at auction. She grew upset at how this absolute stranger spoke to Father, and how she thought she could come in here and order him around.

  Irene blinked, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. Her nose started to run, but she didn’t dare sniff. She wanted to hear the rest of the conversation, no matter how sad, or angry, it made her.

  “Leave. Now.” Father was furious. His voice had dropped several octaves, and even from the hallway, Irene knew his dark eyes were narrowed, his jaw clenched in fury.

  “I will not leave–”

  “Get out of my house,” Father spoke again, voice crisp and clear and dripping with hatred. Irene finally understood why some people were genuinely afraid of him.

  Her mother stomped her foot and fought back. “You really think that girl is getting everything she needs living here with you and a landlady?”

  Irene let out a soft gasp and almost burst into the room, ready to defend Miss Hudson and Father all at once, but he spoke again.

  “More than she would get from you,” he said.

  There was a moment of silence, and Irene wiped her face, smearing her sleeve with tears and snot.

  “With me, she is rich,” her mother challenged.

  “And with me, she is loved,” Father said without hesitation. “Now leave before I have Lestrade arrest you for being a nuisance.”

  Irene ran. She scrambled up the stairs as the door opened behind her. She made it four stairs from the top before turning around. Her mother slammed the door and marched down the hall to the lower stairs.

  Irene gave her face another wipe and hurried after her, barely catching a glimpse of the back of her brown dress as she left 221B.