“Thank you, Miss Hudson,” Joe said sheepishly.
“Good night,” Irene said.
“Good night to you both,” Miss Hudson replied, then paused before leaving the room. “Darkness comes quickly these days, so close those curtains shortly.”
She left for the night, shutting the door to the flat behind her.
Irene glanced at the curtains with a frown, but they seemed so far away, and the sun hadn’t quite set, so she focused on stirring her tea instead. She made a cup for Joe and set it next to the tray, then sat back in the couch and sipped away. The warm beverage crawled right down her throat and warmed her entire body.
Joe set his pen down and stood, wandering to the table to grab his cup.
“Were you named after anyone, Joe?” Irene questioned.
Grabbing his tea and a handful of biscuits, Joe settled in his armchair. “My father. And he was named after his father. Joe Watsons all the way down the line. I would like to name my child Joe one day, should I have any. Unless it’s a girl, then that wouldn’t quite work.”
“Why not?” Irene grabbed her own handful of biscuits.
“You cannot name a girl Joseph.”
“You could name her Josephine,” she suggested.
Joe paused, mid-sip, and chuckled. “Oh, I suppose I could.”
Irene added more tea to her cup and felt Joe’s eyes on her. He licked his lips nervously, and she knew he was readying himself to ask her a personal question.
“Were you named after anyone?” He asked, voice hesitant.
Irene sipped her tea and thought about giving Joe a short answer of ‘yes’ and leaving the conversation at that. She then thought about Mr. Johnston and his grieving and realized that letting Joe in on this small detail might not be such a bad thing right now.
“I was named after the most clever woman in the world, according to my father. A woman named Irene outwitted him in a way he never saw coming.” She then put on the posh accent of her father she’d heard day in and day out that came so easily to her, rolling her ‘R’s and enunciating every syllable. “Until you grow up, of course, my child. Then you shall outsmart them all.”
She chuckled to herself, remembering how he’d pull her curled pigtails gently before sending her off on some task to prove she understood his latest lesson.
“I suppose you’d have to have a daughter, then,” Joe said, offering her a soft smile. “If you wanted to carry on with Irene.”
“Not quite, Doctor,” she replied, a smirk spreading across her face, eager to shift the conversation and show off some of her knowledge at the same time. “If you go back to where the name ‘Irene’ originated, then that would be the original Greek name ‘Eirene’, to which the male version of that name is ‘Irenaeus’.”
Joe laughed into his tea, nearly spilling it. “You would name your son Irenaeus?”
She shrugged. “My father was Sherlock, and his brother was Mycroft. Irenaeus would fit right in with the lot.”
Joe laughed again. “Josephine and Irenaeus.”
“They’d be the best of friends,” Irene said.
“I’m sure they would.” Joe took a bite of a biscuit and gazed at her with a look she’d never seen in him before. It was as if he was writing some story in his head and she played a part in it. Before she could dwell on the look any longer, however, it was gone, and he continued silently drinking his tea.
Her dream nagged at her again, thoughts about her mother swishing around her head like waves. Back and forth, hitting the sides of her mind.
Irene looked at Joe and almost blurted out the entire story to him then and there. As she thought more about the implications of that potential mistake, it occurred to her that perhaps Joe would understand and even help her cope with her feelings.
If this case had taught her anything, it was the importance of talking to someone you trusted.
And she trusted Joe.
He appeared to trust her, too, judging by the story he’d told her a short while ago about his time during the war. She’d seen his struggle that day as he forced himself to tell her about his horrific time, and she felt silly by comparison. Her story was simply about a mother who hadn’t been there for her. But perhaps sharing what happened was needed. She’d gone so long keeping things bottled up inside her, and she had to admit that it wasn’t doing her any good.
“Joe,” she said before she could change her mind. “Do you have a few moments before you go back to your letters?”
Her voice was quiet, and he must’ve taken it as something more serious than she intended because he straightened, brows coming together in concern.
“Of course,” Joe nodded. “Do you want me to sit beside you?”
“No, no,” she replied quickly, her lips tugging into a smile at his kindness. But when she hesitated before starting her narrative, he stood and walked to the couch.
He sat beside her and held his hand out. She stared at his fingers, at the cut he’d somehow acquired while disassembling the cooker, and his short, bitten fingernails.
She hesitated, if only out of habit and stubbornness. If she gave Joe her hand, would that be admitting that she needed more comfort than she realized? She’d grasped his hand countless times, but this was a rare time when he offered his to comfort her, and she had the choice about whether to accept his comfort.
Finally, she placed her hand in his, and he wrapped his fingers around hers. Immediately she knew that this was the correct decision.
“I had a dream,” she began. “About the last time, I saw my mother. Well, the only time I saw my mother.”
She told him about overhearing the conversation between her father and mother in the living room, and she held it together until she reached the part where she chased her mother down the street.
“She had no idea who I was, Joe,” she admitted, tears starting in her eyes. “She claimed to want me back in her life then had no idea who I was, even when she looked right at me. I didn’t even want for a mother, but that hurt. When I returned to Baker Street, my father comforted me and told me he was thinking of retiring to the country to keep bees. He made everything better in an instant, and I’d put it out of my head, but it stuck with me. I thought, like you, that mothers were supposed to love their children, but she wanted nothing to do with me other than to gift me to her husband. I had Miss Hudson, and Eddy’s sister, so I never thought about the impact not having a mother would have on me. But what if it did?”
Joe’s eyes were glassy as if he held back tears, and he shook his head. “I am no expert, but I think you grew up exactly how you were supposed to. I have a marvellous family and wouldn’t trade them for anything, but you have a wonderful family too.”
She felt her brows pull together in confusion, and Joe patted her hand.
“You have Lestrade and Miss Hudson,” Joe continued. “And you grew up with your father and uncle who sound absolutely wonderful. I’ll include myself in there too because your father was right, you are loved, by all of us, even if you do drive us absolutely bonkers on occasion.”
That got a laugh out of her, and tears welled in her eyes.
“Your mother is your mother by title only,” Joe went on, sounding more confident and reassuring with each sentence. “And in my opinion, she gave that title up when she walked away from you. She missed out, Irene, and that’s her loss.”
Irene nodded and realized Joe’s words were working like medicine, taking away all the anger she felt whenever she thought about her mother. He was right, she grew to be an amazing person and was, in fact, surrounded by people who cared for her whether she wanted it or not.
That thought started a whole other surge of emotion inside her, and she realized that for the better part of a decade she’d kept her feelings so much in check that when a slight crack started in her wall, they pushed against it, trying to break the floodgates.
A tear rolled down her cheek, and she sniffed.
Joe immediately checked his pockets for something
and came up empty-handed. He leapt off the couch and searched through his belongings, mumbling something about a handkerchief.
Irene laid down on the couch, tucking a pillow under her head. She watched Joe finally find a handkerchief on his desk, but by the time he made his way back to her, she was asleep.
* * * * *
Irene opened her eyes and realized she was still on the couch, a blanket pulled over her, handkerchief folded by her head. Night had fallen, the curtains wide open, displaying the dark sky and the ambient light of downtown London.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and spotted Joe. He was asleep in his chair, snorting softly whenever he breathed in. He had a book in one hand, thumb stuck between the pages, his other hand dangling off the armrest. His chest rose and fell in smooth, steady motions, and a bit of hair covered his right eye, his eyelid twitching as it tickled the skin.
Irene stood from the couch, throwing the blanket over her arm. She gently took Joe’s book, then draped the blanket over him, tucking it right up to his neck. Using the tip of her finger, she pushed the hair from his face. He stirred a little, mumbling, then sighed and fell into a deep sleep again, head falling to the side.
She took a pillow from the pile on the chair beside him, then froze. This was a pillow from her father’s chair, and she’d never grabbed for one before now.
She hesitated as she looked at the stack of pillows. There were still three left on the chair, plenty to deter people from sitting there.
She still paused for another second, before looking at Joe’s craned neck and imagining the pain he’d be in if he woke up like that.
She slowly tucked the pillow under his head, straightening his neck.
Next was the curtains. She started with the ones by her desk then went to Joe’s, pulling his curtains shut. A folded letter addressed to Alice, sat by an envelope, and Irene’s curiosity got the better of her. She reached out and lifted it so she could read the contents:
Alice,
This letter will be short, as the case we solved was so gruesome that I will not go into details. I hope that you are keeping up your studies and that you aren’t tormenting your sisters too much.
Irene is doing very well, and, since you asked in such a nice way(not), she is, in fact, much more intelligent than I am even with all my schooling. I’m sure that she’d be delighted to hear all about the fungus you found under the log in the back garden. She had a sad day, today, so a letter from you describing the fungus would be a perfect way to cheer her up.
Be good for mum and dad.
Love,
Joey
Irene stared at the letter and gently touched Joe’s name. Irene had never heard him call himself anything other than ‘Joe’ and a smile fell across her face at the name he seemed to reserve only for his little sister.
And, he was right, Irene would love to hear all about the fungus under a log, especially a fungus from up north where Joe was from.
At Alice’s age, Irene was out solving crimes with her father, and Alice seemed just as eager. Irene hurried to her desk and pulled open the drawer. She retrieved an envelope she’d kept with her for almost twenty years. It was a mystery game her father had designed for her, set on paper with photographs, jumbled cyphers, and difficult clues. It had taken her a little over two weeks to solve it when she was younger, and Irene could think of nothing better than sending it to Joe’s sister if she wanted to become an investigator as well.
She went back to Joe’s desk, grabbed a pen, and wrote at the bottom of the letter:
Alice,
I solved this when I was about your age. Now, it’s your turn. Think of it as a test because perhaps one day Joe will bring you to London and you will help me solve a tricky case, and I need you prepared.
Also, send me every last detail about that fungus, I am wildly curious. Send a sample if you are so keen.
Good luck,
Irene.
P.S. Your brother doesn’t give himself enough credit. He is almost as clever as I am, even if he hides it well. And he certainly daydreams enough for both of us.
Irene stuck the letter and the game into the envelope and sealed them. Tiptoeing past Joe, she set the envelope on a small tray in the hallway for Miss Hudson to mail in the morning.
Stifling a yawn, she wandered over to her bedroom, ready to climb into bed and sleep this entire ghastly case away.
Before she dressed in her pyjamas, however, she crouched to the trunk at the end of her bed and pulled out three picture frames, two of them empty and the other with an old picture she hadn’t looked at in a very long time.
She opened the first empty frame and grabbed a photo from her dresser that she’d developed along with the rest of the batch from the crime scene.
She secured it in the frame, did the same with the second empty one, then grabbed the third picture and set all of them on her dresser, nodding at her work. Irene realized, especially looking through the Johnstons’ bedroom, that she had no photos in her own room and she wanted to change that.
The one closest to her bed was of her father, pipe in his mouth, looking down his long nose at the little girl on his lap. He had a smile on his lips and held her tight. Irene was smiling at the camera as well, though she was slightly blurred because she couldn’t keep still. They both sat in front of the fireplace at 221B, in her father’s chair, and if she looked close enough, Uncle John’s shadow loomed over his own chair as he took the photo of them.
Beside that, sat a picture she’d snapped the other day of Eddy, mid-sentence, finger pointed at her, with a look that she knew all too well. She could acquire a more admirable portrait of Eddy, but this particular photo was more true to his nature and reminded her of their relationship and how he would always be worried and watchful, if not slightly agitated with her, for the rest of their lives.
Right beside Eddy was a photo of Joe. He was grinning at the chestnut horse that pulled the Hanson cab. His hand was on her nose, and his eyes crinkled with happiness. Despite his scruffy chin and slicked-back hair, she saw past that to her relaxed and confident friend who was ready to aid her at the drop of a hat, and who cared for her despite all her quirks. That thought, and the picture representing it, made her smile deep in her soul and calmed any anxiety she felt.
A trunk sat buried in her closet that held other photographs. Ones of Miss Hudson, Uncle John, and more of her with her father were tucked away and out of sight because she didn’t know how long it would take her to be able to view them again. But, perhaps now was the time. Once she dug those out and set them on display, she’d have her entire family on her dresser as a reminder that she was surrounded by people who cared about her and would continue to care, even when she was reluctant to accept it.
The End
Holmes & Co. will return in:
The Red Rover Society
Miss Hudson asks Irene and Joe for their help in solving a curious case for a group of London's most affluent residents when the curator for their weekly social meetings of the Red Rover Society vanishes without a trace. The organization welcomed the wealthy group and their gorgeous red dogs, but now the patrons are at a loss. Who will organize their gatherings week to week and where did their leader disappear to?
Whoever is behind this mysterious organization isn't finished yet, however, and Irene and Joe must act fast before a more sinister plan is put in place.
About The Author
Allison Osborne
Allison lives in Ontario, Canada with her son, their West Highland terrier, and an overwhelming amount of vintage trinkets. She attended the University of Western Ontario for creative writing, and when her mind isn't wandering through 1940s England, she is busily working at a vet clinic.
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The Happy Family Facade Page 10
