The Murder of Mary Russell (25 page)

That
was a very battered page from
Dombey and Son.

“It's from that box of my sister's things that Samuel sent me, after she died. I put it under the stairs months ago. November, it was. The contents were tidy when I left them, but they're now somewhat at odds. That could have happened at any time, if the box fell over when someone moved it around. Nothing else appears to be missing.”

He studied the page, and recited, “Blanket, passbook, twine, saucer. Necklace.”

“What have you learned?” she asked.

His jaw worked. “My theory that one might reinvigorate dried blood with fresh serum proved—”

“Is it Mary's?”

He shifted the cup on the tray. “Nine or ten percent of the population—”

“Mr Holmes. Is it hers?”

He could not meet her eyes. “I do not know. All I can say for certain is that all six samples react as type B.”

Mrs Hudson's hands had decided to brace themselves against the side of the table. “Sir, how much…Was there actually as much as it seemed? Spread all about like that, it's hard…”

“Without knowing how much blood might have been absorbed by clothing, one can only—” A retreat to the discourse mode had allowed his eyes to come up, but the look on her face stopped him. When he resumed, his voice was cold, precise. “Two or three pints. A person of Russell's mass has between eight and nine. With a thirty percent blood loss, a person goes into shock and requires urgent treatment. The patient would be extremely light-headed and possibly unconscious. However, one must also take into account the marked fading of the blood trail as this body was pulled across the floor. Even with a blanket beneath, it would have leaked considerably more if the wound had not been staunched in some manner. Which suggests that—Mrs Hudson, sit!”

She lowered herself into the chair, clutching the edges of the table as her vision faded. “Perhaps…” She swallowed, tried again. “Is there any of that tea left?”

A cup of tepid, too-sweet, tannin-rich tea later, the room became more solid. The word “staunched” stood front and centre in her mind. “You think she could be alive?”

“I…” he started. “If…” He cleared his throat. “Someone went to the effort of dragging his victim away instead of simply leaving a body for you to find. There could of course be any number of reasons why—”

“No,” she broke in. “Don't tell me. Let me believe in a ransom demand. As you say, the blood might not even be hers.”

He blinked. “It was the possibility that she is
alive
that caused you to faint?” he asked. “Why do women find relief a greater burden than fear?”

His exasperation made for a blessed note of normality, and Mrs Hudson responded in kind. “Perhaps because we have so little experience with relief.” The tart reply was barely off her tongue when she thought,
Good Lord,
could he have said that—in his current state—to stiffen my backbone?
Well, it worked. “You were saying: if her wound was treated?”

“I was about to say that your description of the trail leading to the door, half-dry footprints and indistinct drag marks, suggests that the wound was staunched in some manner.”

“I thought…” No. She would not say it, no more than he would: the other reason for a person not bleeding was that their heart had stopped. “Could it in fact have been a kidnapping? It's only been a day: they could be waiting to send a demand?”

“Delay is a time-honoured means of building tension,” he agreed, with a clear lack of conviction. He dropped into the chair across from her, taking out his tobacco pouch. For once, she raised no objection: smoke in the kitchen today would be a welcome thing. When the pipe was going, his interrogation began.

“The blanket. Who knew it was there?”

“Anyone who looked in the cupboard.”

“Someone familiar with the house, then?”

“Not necessarily. Anyone might search under the stairs for a rug or tarpaulin.”

“Your necklace. Who knew about that?”

“Anyone who knew me…then. Or someone who had poked about in my jewellery box. There was even a photograph, taken when I was perhaps twelve or thirteen, that showed me wearing it.”

“Who among those people would be aware that it was significant to you?”

“It's only a good-luck charm.”

“It's more than that. You have always treasured it above more valuable pieces of jewellery. You used to wear it as you have it now, beneath your clothing. And it is one of the few pieces you still have from…before.”

It was the closest, in all these years, that Sherlock Holmes had come to talking about her life before Baker Street.

She sat for a time, digging through distant memories. “My father gave it to me when I was ten, as a memento of our first…Job. We had no money—really none—so a half sovereign meant the difference between eating and going hungry. But even that first day, we brought in enough for dinner without the coin. And since it was from the year I was born—1856—it seemed like an omen. Papa surprised me with it strung on a chain, two or three days later.

“Alicia would have been seven. The minute she saw it, she wanted it. Well, she wanted anything I had—clothes, toys, food—and I usually gave it to her. But this time, Papa wouldn't let me. And dear heaven, the tantrum she threw! She moaned about it for days, until he took her out into the harbour for an outing. Because I didn't get to go, that seemed to satisfy her.”

He plucked the key element out of her memories. “Your sister was born in 1859?”

“Yes, why—that other coin! That was the date of the one from the mantelpiece. You think she might have had one, too?”

“Wouldn't you have known, if your sister had one like yours?”

“No,” she said. “Well, perhaps. It depended…”

“On?” His patience was wearing thin.

“My sister loved her secrets, and she was very good at keeping them. If she had a necklace like mine, especially if Father had given it to her—”

“On a day spent out in the Sydney Harbour, perhaps?”

He could see the answer on her face. “To repeat the question, who knows its true significance?”

“No one. If anyone noticed, I would just say it was a lucky charm.”

“Your sister? Your…lover?”

The thought of Hugh Edmunds playing with the pendant between her breasts could still make her blush, after nearly fifty years. “Not him. But, my sister…”

“Yes?” Her pause made his voice sharp.

“I
think
that if Alicia knew my necklace had meaning, she'd have dropped hints about it. And, Papa would have hesitated to tell her, especially when she was small, because it would be revealing to her what he and I did. It is possible,” she admitted, “that Papa wrote her about it after we'd left Australia. It's not the sort of thing he would normally commit to paper, but sometimes he wrote her when he'd been drinking.”

“You would say that your sister knew the necklace had significance to you, but not why?”

“Yes.”

“And anyone who saw that childhood photograph would notice it?”

“Yes, although I'm not sure you could tell what kind of a coin it is.”

“Someone who found both photograph and necklace might think it had been yours?” he pressed. “Her son, for example?”

Not
your son:
that would violate his scrupulous adherence to the vow.

“He might.”

“Your sister died last August, I believe?”

“Yes, some kind of infection in her lungs. And I know what you are thinking.”

His sceptical glance stung.

“Mr Holmes, I am nowhere near as clever as Mary, but I have watched you at work for a very long time. When I found…that”—she made a gesture at the adjoining room—“my first telephone call was to Billy, before the police. I told him I had to find you, and asked him to place notices in all the papers. Then I asked him to make urgent enquiries in Sydney, to find out if Samuel is still there. Considering the time it would take for a response, I thought it best to begin matters immediately, rather than wait for you to give the order.”

The grey eyes blinked. After a minute, he said, “Mrs Hudson, you have again managed to surprise me. Thank you for the tea. I shall be upstairs in the darkroom, developing your photographs.”

“What shall I tell Mr Lestrade, when he arrives?”

“That if he comes into the darkroom and spoils the photographs, he will regret it. I shall speak with him when I finish.”

“And may I…that is, are you finished with the…the bloodstain?”

He could not control the sideways glance of his eyes towards the sitting-room door, no more than he could control the dread that lay behind them. “I will deal with it,” he said.

“No. This one is for me to clean.”

In nearly half a century of life together, two people build a vocabulary of glances and tones, permitting entire conversations that go unspoken. In the end, he rose, and said only, “Yes, I am finished with it.”

M
rs Hudson was relieved when the door-bell clattered, interrupting her attempts to get the last marks from the floorboards. She stifled a groan as she clambered to her feet, drying her hands on her apron.

“Come in, Chief Inspector Lestrade. I'll put the kettle on.” Twenty-eight hours after she had returned from market, and every motion still caused the world to spin a little, every sound gave off an echo of the macabre. But when normality was impossible, one embraced pretence. “Or would you like something stronger?”

“Tea. Thank you.” The policeman followed her through the house, his steps faltering near the wet spot on the floor. Miss Russell had not always made his life easy, but that had little to do with affection, or respect.

“Did you have any lunch?” The housekeeper reached for the clean towel she'd left across the tray of sandwiches she'd made for Mr Holmes to ignore.

“I told the wife I'd be home, thanks, so just the tea for now. Well, all right, I could probably…” He sat at the scrubbed deal table and reached for a thick triangle of bread and cheese. “Any word from Mr Holmes?”

Just then, the sound of a distant crash came from upstairs.

“What the—” He stopped at the touch of her hand. The two kept a tense silence for a full minute before Mrs Hudson eased back on her chair.

“He is upstairs—and by the sound of it, having no luck.” She gave him a cheerless smile. “The last time he threw something across the laboratory was 1905. We had to call in the fire brigade.”

Lestrade's mouth would have dropped, had it not been full of food. He swallowed hastily. “Mrs Hudson, I specifically told you to ring the Eastbourne station the moment he showed up.”

“Yes. However,
he
wished to work without distraction. I imagine that he will be down shortly.” When Lestrade made to set down his impromptu meal, she hardened her voice to a landlady's no-nonsense tones. “Mr Holmes said to permit no interruptions, even from you. And in any event,” she added in more sympathetic tones, “if he's as furious as it sounds, you'll want to give him time to collect himself.”

Lestrade had felt the edge of Holmes' cold wrath too many times over the years to ignore the warning, and permitted her to distract him with a question about his children. A few minutes later, as he showed signs of summoning the courage to beard a lion in his den, they heard the noise of feet on the stairs.

“Ah,” she said unnecessarily, “here he comes.”

Lestrade thrust out his hand when the older man came in. “Mr Holmes, how are you holding up? I was terribly—”

“Lestrade, your constables are a menace. Where's the knife? Mrs Hudson, have you no lights in this room?”

“They weren't
my
constables,” Lestrade protested.

“Were my photographs any help?” she asked, switching on the electrical light over the table.

“Photographs? No.” He snatched the envelope from Lestrade, ripping off the end and tipping the contents onto the wood. Someone had wrapped a piece of card stock around its blade.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm a terrible photographer.”

“Yes.” He reached for the magnifying glass, then paused. “Not your fault. I should buy a decent camera.”

A reassuring lie—from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes? “What did I do wrong?”

He bent over the knife. “Your hands. They seem to have been somewhat…uncertain.”

She had been trembling all over, after calling Billy and before the police arrived. She'd never stopped to consider the effect on photographic film.

He examined the knife minutely: the direction of the stains, the smeared tip, the side of the blade less marked with blood. He then raised his head to look through the doorway, his eyes tracking invisible motions.

After a time, Mrs Hudson ventured, “It does look like hers.” Mary generally wore a slim little throwing knife, either strapped to her ankle or in the top of her boot.

“It is,” Holmes said. “But how was the knife in two places?”

“What do you mean?” Lestrade asked.

“The blood, man. Look at that blood.”

Mary Russell's knife lay across her husband's palm, no longer than his hand and wickedly sharp. A thick bead of dried blood marked one side. When he flipped it over, the line was considerably thinner. The last inch of its point showed a smear where it had hit the plaster.

“I agree it's odd,” Lestrade told him, “but there's any number of blood vessels right under the surface.”

“With no spray?”

“It could have got wiped off on clothing,” he said.

“It was.”

“I don't understand,” Mrs Hudson said.

Impatiently, Holmes dropped the thing and snatched up the table knife, stabbing it into the butter pot with a suddenness that made Mrs Hudson jump and the little pot crack in two. He pulled out the smeared knife and wiped both sides on the tray's linen napkin. Paying no attention to her protests, he then took the sandwich from Lestrade's plate, parted its halves, and slapped it butter-side down on the table, peeling the bread away and tossing it back at the plate. He then scraped the table knife along the buttery deposit, and held it out for them to see: overall, the blade had an oily sheen, as the throwing knife was dull. One edge now had a thick bead of butter; its backside had but a trace. He made another fist around the knife's handle, but Mrs Hudson caught his wrist before he could conclude his demonstration by burying the point in her table.

“You think the knife was used, cleaned, then scraped through the blood on the floor?” Lestrade asked.

“Evidently.”

“Why do that?”

“Chief Inspector, I try to form my hypotheses upon data, rather than shape the data to match my wishes.”

And with that, he picked up his wife's throwing knife and walked out.

Lestrade made to follow, but Mrs Hudson stopped him. “There's little point in our watching him do his dribbles and drops, and he's cross enough as it is. Finish your tea and I'll do you a fresh sandwich, then we can go up and see what he has discovered.”

The Chief Inspector knew Holmes well enough to see the sense in the suggestion. He watched the older woman move through her kitchen, her face giving away none of the distress she had to be feeling.

“How is he holding up?” he asked.

“How do you think?”

“Yes. Dr Watson is away, you said?”

“In America. I'd rather not try to contact him, until…”
Until we know, one way or the other.

“What about his brother? Has he talked to Mycroft yet?”

“I don't believe so.”

“You might want to telephone to him.”

She gave Lestrade a glance. “You imagine Mycroft Holmes would be a source of comfort?”

“Not what you or I would think of as comfort, but…”

She considered what he had said, then nodded. “I'll suggest it to him.”

“Well, he's sure to throw me out before too long. Let me know if you want me here. Anytime. Even if you just need someone to knock him unconscious for a while.”

The similar path of their thoughts gave Mrs Hudson the first trace of a smile since she'd returned home from Eastbourne: both had worked with Sherlock Holmes long enough to know how relentless the man would be, unless an intervention was forced upon him.

Lestrade finished his tea. “Shall we go up now, and see what he's found?”

“Yes. And, Chief Inspector? Thank you.”

What Holmes had found on the blade was more type B blood. Mrs Hudson's long experience allowed her to interpret the prodigious frown with which he was regarding the little weapon: there was as much confusion there as fury. He was feeling betrayed by science, and running out of things to grasp: if he didn't uncover some new facts, and soon, the man would turn upon himself. She broke into Lestrade's attempts at reassurance with a question for her employer.

“What does it mean?”

He gave an irritable shake of the head and pushed away from the laboratory bench. “There's some message in it, but the devil only knows what. Lestrade, I shall need—” He went rigid: a motorcar's tyres on the drive. He was the first at the window, and headed instantly for the stairs. The others looked out.

“It's Billy!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed.

“Who?” Lestrade asked.

“William Mudd. An old friend of Mr Holmes. He has an enquiry agency in London.”

“Ah, that one,” he said, with considerably less enthusiasm than she had shown, and followed her downstairs.

Holmes and Billy were already deep in conversation, an unlikely pair of confederates even without eleven years of difference in their ages: the tall, thin, grey-haired English gentleman, and the short, stout, dark-skinned Cockney with the first traces of salt in his tight black curls.

That skinny lad of The Bishop's is fifty-three,
Mrs Hudson thought.
I must be truly ancient.

“Billy, it's good to see you,” she said, somewhat repressively. “I think you know Chief Inspector Lestrade? Chief Inspector, William Mudd.”

The men's hand-clasp was brief, the air distinctly cool. “We've met,” said Lestrade. Billy nodded, then turned to Holmes.

“I'll wait till you're finished here.”

“I think we are through, yes, Chief Inspector? Your wife no doubt expects you at home.”

It was as brusque a dismissal as Lestrade had ever received from the man, which was saying a lot. Still, he couldn't very well insist on remaining, not unless he was ready to declare Sherlock Holmes a suspect in his own wife's death. (
And God help me if that day ever comes,
he thought.) The policeman shook hands with the old detective, lifted his hat to Mrs Hudson, and climbed into the waiting motorcar. The motor began to move away, then jerked to a halt when Holmes stepped in front of it.

Holmes did not wait for Lestrade to lower his window. “I'll need the photographs your man took.”

“Oh, you will, eh?” But by the time Lestrade had the window open, he was speaking to Holmes' retreating back, leaving only the driver to absorb his irritation. “Get on, man, I'll miss my train!”

Mr William Mudd, petty criminal turned respectable businessman, put his arms around his former partner. She clung to him. “Oh, Billy, Billy,” she breathed.

“We'll get her back safe, Mrs H,” he murmured against her hair. “This is Miss Russell we're talking about, never you worry. You should've let me come earlier. Oh, but that is a drive and a half, down here from London. I don't suppose there's any chance you have the kettle on?”

“Of course I do! Just give me two minutes.”

The two men watched her hurry away. “How is She holding up, sir?” In Billy's mouth, Mrs Hudson's pronoun always bore a capital letter.

“Mrs Hudson is tough as nails,” Holmes said automatically. “Billy, we need to find Russell, and fast. What have you for me that you couldn't give me over the telephone?”

“You think they've put a tap on the lines?”

“Police these days will do anything to interfere. Come inside, let's talk.”

“Actually, sir…”

Holmes stopped. “Something you don't want Mrs Hudson to hear?”

“I think you'll want to hear it first. We can decide how much to tell her.”

“Let's walk. I need to check my hives anyway.”

But Mrs Hudson spotted them from the kitchen window, and came marching through the walled orchard with a laden tray. “You two want your privacy, I can see that, but Billy's had a long journey. Dinner's in the oven.”

She set the tray onto the chopping block with a clatter, and gave her employer a close look. His jaw was not quite as clenched as it had been, his eyes not so haunted: Billy had always been reassuring, she thought. Mr Holmes might always find his culprit, but Billy had a way of making a person
feel
that the culprit was sure to be found. She gave Billy a look that, if not a smile, was at least warm. Then she turned and marched back to the house.