The House at Baker Street (17 page)

‘John doesn’t allow the servants into his study either,’ Mary said. ‘Men don’t, as a rule. I’m certain the papers are here.’

We all looked around the room. There were a few boxes scattered on the floor and the bookshelves – gun boxes, I guessed. They were wooden and polished and locked. Mary checked the
bookcases, pulling the books out to make sure nothing was behind them. Most seemed never to have been opened. Irene went through the drawers in the desk.

‘I found his bank book,’ Irene said. ‘He’s not rich, certainly not rich enough to keep up a home like this.’

‘Then how does he pay for it? And his lifestyle?’ Mary asked.

‘Credit, for now, probably,’ Irene said. ‘But sooner or later he’s going to need to pay the bills.’

So the man needed money. Then I noticed, behind the candle, between the bookshelf and the desk, an old travelling case. It was battered brown leather, about two feet square. The monogram on top
had nearly worn away. It looked as if it had been thrown there after a journey and never put away. It looked unimportant.

I moved the candle to one side, knelt down, and pulled the case out onto the floor. I pulled off the dusty lid and peered inside.

On top was a tray full of glass bottles. Whatever was in the bottles had long dried away to a sticky residue. The tray fitted tightly, and I had to pull at it hard to remove it. Underneath that
should have been more fixtures and fittings – but they had gone. It was full of letters. Dozens of them. All kinds of letters, from plain white ones covered with sharp black ink to scented
violet letters with palest purple feminine writing. From the case rose a mixture of perfumes – rose, jasmine, and more musky scents I could not identify. It was an entire case of love letters
– and down one side of it was a heavy black ledger.

‘This is it!’ I hissed. Mary and Irene came over to join me. I pulled out the ledger and they pulled out handfuls of letters.

The ledger consisted of a record of his conquests. Each page was given over to one woman, with her name at the top, a place and a time, and a note of the technique he had used to charm her into
bed. There were a few little odd facts here and there – the placement of a mole, a liking for Turkish delight. One or two of the names had amounts of money written next to them, but not as
much as I would have expected from a blackmailer – the odd hundred, here and there. I was surprised by how many names I recognized, but these were names from the papers and court circulars,
not from my case. There was no mention of the Whitechapel Lady or Laura Shirley.

I felt uneasy. The idea of keeping the ledger here was clever, I admit, but the actual book showed little sign of intelligence. Oh, Sir George was devious and cunning as a snake, but he seemed
to have little of the insight into human nature that would create the trick with the safe. No, someone had told him that, someone cleverer than he. There was someone there, in the background
– far in the background, watching him, guiding him . . . oh.

Oh.

Not him. He was a seducer, and blackmailer and abuser of women, but he was the weapon, not the perpetrator. Perhaps he was being used to destroy these women, prise secrets from them, then hand
those secrets over to whoever controlled him. Maybe he didn’t even know he was being controlled. Perhaps he had taken the suggestion of the safe and easily picked door locks as a damned
clever idea, never realizing that meant whoever had suggested it now knew they could sneak in any time they pleased and read these letters and the ledger.

Not him. Sir George Burnwell could be crossed off my list. I sat back on my heels, and in my head, I swore a little. I swore a lot.

‘These are very foolish letters,’ Mary said, reading through them, not noticing my sudden distraction.

‘Love letters generally are,’ Irene said dryly. ‘Why do we insist on immortalizing our feelings so? Engraved jewellery, letters . . .’

‘Photographs,’ Mary interjected.

‘Photographs,’ Irene agreed, amused. ‘I’ve been as foolish as any of these woman, I know.’

‘Good grief, what language!’ Mary gasped, peering at an ivory-white letter covered in florid handwriting. ‘I’m surprised the page doesn’t blush. And this one
– no, wait, that’s a solicitor’s letter. And that’s a boot-maker’s bill. It’s all mixed in together.’

‘No sense of order at all. Not what I expected from our blackmailer,’ Irene said, puzzled. ‘Surely he’d be more organized?’

I looked up. I could see she was beginning to come to the same conclusion I had.

‘Have you noticed,’ Mary said, ‘none of these letters make any mention of blackmail? Though several refer to lending Sir George money.’

‘Lending?’ I asked, standing up again and peering over Irene’s shoulder at her letter. It was on pink paper, very thick, and quoted Byron. Judging by the handwriting, this girl
was barely out of the schoolroom.

‘To pay his tailor’s bill, his hotel bill, various debts of honour,’ Mary explained, flipping through several letters. ‘But looking at what they’ve written, they
are giving him the money through a twisted sense of love, not blackmail.’

Mary was beginning to realize it too.

‘I’ve looked through this ledger,’ I said, holding it up. ‘Of the names I recognize, all are still alive and prospering.’

‘He’s not our man, is he?’ Mary said to me, understanding. Irene shook her head.

‘No, he isn’t,’ I agreed. ‘He is foul and disgusting and should be stopped, but he is not the one destroying these women’s lives. We were wrong. Someone else is
behind this.’

We all three stood in Sir George Burnwell’s study looking at each other. We felt oddly deflated, disappointed and scared now. Not only were we wrong, we were no closer to discovering the
truth than before. ‘His tailor charges a prodigious amount of money,’ Irene replied inconsequentially, staring at a letter. ‘Far more than I imagine his clothes are actually
worth.’

‘So does his solicitor,’ Mary added lightly. I knew what they were trying to do, they were trying to cheer me up, but I felt only a great weight upon me.

‘According to this, he has been named as co-respondent in five divorce cases!’ Mary added.

‘Only five?’ Irene replied dryly. ‘There’s evidence for at least eleven in my hands right here . . . oh, that’s what we’ll do!’ she cried, suddenly
excited. ‘We’ll take the lot with us! The letters, the ledger, everything!’

‘Why?’ I asked warily.

‘Why?’ Irene demanded. ‘Do you know what damage Sir George could do if he published these letters? Do you know what these letters represent?’

‘Some of these women have stolen items for him,’ Mary said, waving a letter at me. ‘He’s corrupting them, and this is his proof!’

‘Proof of his guilt!’ Irene added. ‘We know someone who could use that!’

‘And besides, it means the secrets don’t fall into
his
hands. You know, the man we’re trying to catch,’ Mary told me. ‘Because I think even if Sir George is
not our man, I bet he has some connection to him, he sells his secrets to him.’

‘Not wrong, then,’ I said, looking up at her. She was right. They were both right. ‘Not the man, but a step away from the man. Another link in the chain.’

‘Another move in the game,’ Irene murmured. ‘Now it’s your move, Martha.’

Oh, I knew what to do. Take the letters from Sir George, keep them safe from our blackmailer, give them to Mr Holmes, and achieve several objectives at once. I pushed the ledger down the front
of my dress.

‘Mr Holmes will never let him get away with this. One day, somehow, he’ll find a way to deal with Sir George,’ I said.

‘Damned right!’ Mary cried. She looked round at our surprised faces. ‘Sorry, it’s something John says.’ Laughing again, with a purpose again, and justice on our
side again, we began picking up the letters and stuffing them into every pocket we could find, down our dresses, even in our garters. We couldn’t take the case, it was too large and awkward
but we were taking as much out of it as we could possibly carry.

The case was half empty when we heard the front door slam, and the sound of laughter from downstairs. Feminine laughter, and then a man’s voice, well-bred, amused.

Sir George Burnwell had returned.

We froze, crouched on the floor, in the dimmest of moonlight, gathered around the case of love letters. Irene quickly leaned forward and blew out the candle, and we stayed as
still as we could, barely breathing. We listened as Sir George and his lady (who did not quite laugh like a young society miss – he must have been very firmly rebuffed and returned to an
easier alternative) climbed up the stairs to the first floor, down the corridor, up to the door of the study. There he seemed to pause for a second and we held our breath, but the pair walked past
it, down the corridor into a room further down.

We three breathed again, and stood up slowly. My knee cracked as I stood, and it sounded unnaturally loud in the tense silence, but no one came. We could dimly hear the sound of laughter and
glasses being knocked together and chairs creaking. Irene raised her fingers to her lips (as if either of us would speak!) and pointed towards the door. We could see it outlined in the yellow light
from the gas lamp in the corridor, just enough to guide us to it. We walked across the room as silently as we could, uncomfortably aware of papers rustling in various pockets and garments. Irene
reached for the door, just as we heard Sir George say:

‘Just a moment, dear, it’s in my study. I’ll fetch it.’ His footsteps started down the corridor. In a flash Irene turned the key in the lock and pulled it out, letting
the keyhole guard drop. Barely a moment later, the handle rattled as Sir George pulled at the door.

We backed away to the other side of the room, staring at the door in horror. What if the lock was faulty? What if he broke it down?

‘He’ll know we’re here if it’s locked,’ Mary whispered, as Sir George swore and shook the door.

Irene shook her head and showed Mary the key. If it wasn’t in the lock, hopefully he wouldn’t know it was locked from the inside.

‘Left the key upstairs,’ Sir George called to his lady friend. ‘I won’t be a moment.’ We heard him pause before the door a moment, puzzled. Perhaps if he had been
less drunk he might have noticed that something was wrong. Then we listened to him walk away and climb the stairs to the second floor.

We heard the lady drifting up and down the corridor, singing softly to herself. We couldn’t get past her. We certainly couldn’t run for it. Not with all the letters overflowing from
our pockets. There was no time, even if I had been as young and fit as Irene and Mary.

‘Now what?’ Mary whispered. Irene looked round, and then began pulling at the window, trying to push it open. But this was the window we had seen from outside, the one that had
looked sealed, and it didn’t move.

‘Help me!’ she hissed.

‘We can’t jump from here,’ Mary advised her, though she went to the window and started helping Irene to raise it. ‘There’s a stone terrace down there; we’d
break our legs.’

‘We’re not going to jump,’ Irene said through gritted teeth. The window was beginning to loosen. I stood by the door, listening, ready to warn them as soon as I heard Sir
George returning. I could still hear him blundering upstairs.

‘Then what?’ Mary demanded.

‘I’m going to use a trick Mr Holmes taught me,’ Irene replied, grinning wickedly in the moonlight. ‘Martha, bring the case of letters over here – and pass me those
matches.’

I did as she said, as Sir George, upstairs, finally stood still. I could imagine him up there, realizing the key wasn’t there, remembering where he left it, working out that someone was in
here.

Do you know, I was not afraid? Discovery, shame, imprisonment, possibly even death stared me in the face, but I was not afraid. Instead I was quietly, so silently, intensely alive, and I liked
it.

Upstairs, Sir George cried ‘Damn it!’ and rushed for the stairs. He had worked it out.

At that moment, Mary gave one enormous shove, and the window flew open.

I heard Sir George thunder down the stairs. Irene was trying to light the matches, but they would not strike. She had to discard two, three matches as faulty.

Sir George fell against the door. He shouted at his companion to get back into the other room.

Irene tried again. This time the flame caught, and held.

Sir George shouted through the door, ‘I know you’re there. There’s no way out!’

Irene dropped the match into the case of letters. For a moment, nothing happened, then a tiny flame flickered in the middle. Irene blew on it to fan it.

‘Who sent you?’ Sir George bellowed, as he smashed his shoulder against the door. The wooden frame shuddered, but held. ‘I warn you, I’m armed.’

The flame was still so small, but growing.

‘To hell with warnings!’ Sir George shouted. ‘I’ll shoot you where you stand!’ He slammed against the door again. It still held, but I could see the frame
splintering. One more thrust against the door, and he’d be in.

The letters were fully alight now. I heard Sir George line up to shove against the door one more time. The frame was worn. This was the moment on which it all turned.