The House at Baker Street (19 page)

‘He stopped tightening his left hand then.

‘“A packet was sent to my husband, Mr Godfrey Norton.”

‘“The solicitor,” he said, his voice dripping with scorn.

‘“The solicitor,” I agreed amiably. “The packet contained many details of my former life. Details I had kept from him. Sordid details.”

‘I own, Martha, I blushed. Not at the thought of what the packet contained, but because I had kept the facts from my husband. Facts Mr Holmes knew, facts I would carelessly tell him, but
facts the man whose ring I wore did not know. Mr Holmes’ expression did not change. He merely watched me.

‘“Including some details I thought only you and I knew,” I finished, sharper than I had intended.

‘His face did not flicker. “You think I sent these papers to your husband?”

‘I looked at him then, and he looked back at me, so very steadily. The silence in the room hung so thickly that the sound of the hansom cab driver calling outside seemed to ring through
us.

‘“No, I don’t think it,” I said, and I believe my voice was barely above a whisper. Mr Holmes’ gaze is a fearsome thing to withstand, and yet I like the honesty of
it. It is sometimes a relief to find someone before whom you cannot hide. I have played a part all my life yet all I am to Sherlock Holmes is Irene Adler.

‘“But I must eliminate all possibilities,” I added. He smiled at that, a quick, involuntary twitch of his mouth. “Given the secrets contained in these papers, you are a
possible suspect. A faint one, but a possibility nonetheless.”

‘“I could assure you I am innocent, but then so would a guilty man,” he said, without a trace of anger.

‘“Quite. But now I have spoken to you I am . . . I mean . . . I do not believe you capable of such spiteful behaviour,” I said, and I had stammered! I actually stammered. I
don’t know why. He merely inclined his head in thanks to me.

‘“Perhaps you would be better chasing the motive,” he said, quite as if I were a fellow detective asking for advice.

‘“I believe whoever sent this packet wishes to destroy my marriage,” I told him, “persuade my husband to abandon me and leave me alone and unprotected.”

‘“Miss Adler, you may be alone, but you are more than capable of protecting yourself.”

‘He would insist on using my maiden name!

‘“You know that; whoever sent the packet does not. Another reason I now do not believe you sent the papers.”

‘“No, I did not,” he said, standing by the window, watching me, and only me. Not a single noise in the street outside drew his attention. No, he would not send those papers. He
has honour, that man. A strange, unconventional kind of honour, I admit, but honour all the same.

‘“No, you did not,” I agreed. I started to fiddle with my gloves. I always do fiddle when I’m thinking. “It seemed like a dirty blackmailer’s trick, but no
one has tried to blackmail me lately. Thank you for your help.” I moved to stand, but he spoke quietly.

‘“Did it have the desired effect?”

‘I sat back down in my chair and looked at him, so clear and defined in the light from the window, so utterly unreadable.

‘“My husband,” I said, choosing my words deliberately, “read the entire packet of papers. He then asked me if I had ever been cruel, and I said not to anyone who was not
rich, healthy and proud. He asked me if that portion of my life was over. I said it was. He then handed the packet over to me, and asked me if I cared for some coffee. He has not spoken about it
since.”

‘“Then the blackmailer did not succeed?”

‘“No, Mr Holmes. It is true that I am here alone, but I am here investigating these letters, with both his knowledge and blessing. Business affairs keep him in the States, but if I
call, he will come. He will be calm, he will be magnanimous, he will be reasonable and he will love me with all his heart and soul. He will never throw my past in my face, and he will never walk
away from me unless I behave dishonourably. That is the man I married.”

‘“Yes,” he said quietly. “That is the man you married. I was there.”

‘We were both silent for a moment. I cannot tell you what we thought – he, because I do not know, myself because I only watched him. Then, all businesslike again, he spoke. “Do
you wish me to track down whoever sent you this package? Is that your commission for me?”

‘“No, I can manage that for myself,” I said, rising.

‘“Alone?”

‘“I have help. The very best help.”

‘For a moment he looked puzzled. Then he glanced down at the floor, as if he would peer right through it into your kitchen and see you down here. Then he looked back up at me.

‘“Sometimes I forget I do not live here alone,” he said ruefully.

‘“Well, you shouldn’t,” I admonished him, as I headed towards the door. “Mrs Hudson and Mrs Watson are very intelligent and stimulating company.” Oh, I do
enjoy teasing that man, and leaving him all bemused like that!

‘I had just opened the door when he called out, “Irene!”

‘He had such a note of urgency in his voice, I turned back, and forgot to tell him to call me Mrs Norton.

‘“You may not know what you are getting into . . . ” he started to say.

‘“I know perfectly well . . . ”

‘“You may but Mrs Hudson and Mrs Watson may not!” he snapped. Do you know, my dear, I think he cares for you? Both of you, in his odd way. But emotions are something he has no
room for in his attic of a mind, so he throws them away. Or so he thinks, until one day, something will happen to shove those self-same emotions right in front of him.

‘“I will not offer my help, or intrude,” he said, more calmly. “I understand why you must do whatever you are doing alone. I applaud it. But Miss Adler,” and he
came across to where I stood, still in the doorway, half in and half out of his rooms. “Sometimes, the puzzle is just a game, and it is studied and played and solved and you walk away. But
sometimes, the puzzle becomes something much darker, more dangerous, deadly even. No one walks away untouched. I am here, if you need me.”

‘He meant it. He would keep us safe, all of us, if we asked. Do not be afraid to ask, will you? For as I left, he walked back into his rooms, his left hand clutched so tight the knuckles
were white, and he murmured, as much to himself as to me, “Be careful. For God’s sake, all of you, be careful.”’

Irene stopped and looked at me across the kitchen table.

It was not the story I had been expecting. I expected badinage, or flirting, or even anger. I had not expected cool conversation and emotions tightly hidden in a clasping hand. I had not
expected him to know we were helping Irene, or his concern for the three of us. I was touched, and a little sad, for both Mr Holmes and Irene.

Irene rose.

‘I said I would solve this myself, but you and Mary are far further along than I had reached. I have to admit, you seem to be better at this particular game than I am,’ she told me
seriously. ‘You have the mind to solve this, Martha. And the skills, too – you and Mary.’

She glanced round my clean, tidy kitchen, her eyes calculating and thoughtful. She was planning her next move, but I could not read it in her face.

‘I act, but you two think,’ Irene said, reaching out and slightly moving a tea cup on the table. ‘That’s what this case needs – thought. Therefore,’ she
concluded, leaving the cup alone and looking at me, very directly, ‘I will leave this case with you.’

‘To us?’ I questioned. ‘Irene . . .’

‘I will draw back, until you tell me to act,’ she said to me, overriding my objection. ‘Martha, I have lost all the contacts and influence I had when I lived here before. I
also know that you know more than you are telling me.’

I looked up at her. She was right, but how had she known? I had kept other women’s secrets from her. I had kept my own deductions from her. I kept the fact that for a brief second, just
the briefest of moments, I had suspected her. She had so many skills, so many talents that an opera singer from New Jersey had no business having.

‘I need you more than you need me, right now,’ she said to me gently, and I felt a wave of guilt for my suspicions. ‘Mary and you are most kind, and interesting company, but I
am extraneous to this investigation.’

‘No,’ I said, trying to tell her I wanted her to stay.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I made a mistake. I made an emotional judgement, and it was wrong, and very misguided.’

She did not glance up, but I did, towards Mr Holmes, silent in his rooms.

‘I was a fool,’ she admitted. ‘This case, all of it, has shaken me more than I can admit. I think I would be best served by passing the case over to you. I am too emotionally
involved. I have full confidence you will give me a satisfactory answer. I shall leave this in your capable hands. However,’ she said, standing and pulling on her gloves, ‘if you
require any more nefarious help, you know where to find me. I am completely at your disposal.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘I expect to hear from you very soon.’

I cleaned furiously that whole afternoon. I always found cleaning very conducive to thinking. I turned the case over and over in my mind whilst polishing banisters and blacking
grates and sweeping carpets. And always, all afternoon and into the early evening, just at the edge of my hearing, I heard Mr Holmes pacing up and down.

It was dark and the gas lamps were being lit when Mary came running into 221b and straight into the kitchen. She looked white as a sheet, and stood in the doorway, panting for
breath.

‘Oh Martha!’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Martha . . .’

She held out the evening paper.

The headline, big and bold across the front, read: ‘New Ripper Outrage’ and underneath that, ‘Notable Whitechapel Resident Murdered’.

I read the article carefully, and then again to be certain, and then side by side with Mary to make sure we understood.

The story was florid and sensationalist, but the facts were these.

A woman – a respectable woman – in Whitechapel had been murdered. It could not have been suicide, nor an accident. She had been stabbed several times, with a large knife. She had
been slit from sternum to belly. Her entrails had been removed and scattered around the room. Her tongue had been cut out and torn to pieces. The room swam in her blood. This was not a prostitute.
This was not even one of the thousands of homeless, nameless women. This woman had a home, and a name everyone knew. Not her real name, but a name given to her. The ripped woman was known to one
and all as the Whitechapel Lady.

Murder. It was murder now. Mr Holmes was right: the puzzle had become something far darker. The game had changed.

Perhaps we should have called in Mr Holmes then. We did not even discuss it this time. We were under an obligation we were honour-bound to fulfil ourselves. An obligation to
the dead.

I think Mary would have been incensed if I had even mentioned handing the case over to Mr Holmes. She was never quite as much in awe of him as I was. Besides, Mary liked to do
things her own way. She never quite obeyed the rules all good wives should have obeyed.

Mary Watson suddenly appeared in my kitchen two days after her wedding to John. We had become friends, but our friendship was still new, and we were still discovering the
character of each other.

I was standing at the counter, ostensibly kneading bread, but actually listening to the conversation coming through the open vent. Mr Holmes was telling John about his latest case. I was so
caught up in listening that I stopped kneading and stood there, hands half covered in dough, head turned towards the vent, utterly unaware that Mary was standing in the doorway, watching. It was
only when she gave a discreet little cough that I turned around to see her there.

I was horrified to be caught eavesdropping. My stomach dropped, I felt the colour fade from my face. She would tell; I knew she would. She would tell Mr Holmes and John that I listened to them,
that I was a gossip, or worse, a lonely old woman. How could she not? I was eavesdropping on the most private of conversations! They would despise me. They would shut me out!

‘You can hear everything that goes on in Mr Holmes’ room through that vent?’ she whispered. I swallowed, and nodded.

‘Mary . . .’ I started to say, but she interrupted.

‘How wonderful! I always wondered what John and Sherlock talked of.’

I’m afraid I gaped, rather like a fish. Of all the things I expected to hear, that was not one of them.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Of course, be my guest,’ I said. She came and stood beside me, and started to pat the dough I had kneaded into a tin. She smiled at me, the loveliest, most confiding smile I had
seen in a long while.

‘This is going to be fun,’ she said.

The very next morning after the newspaper reports of the Whitechapel Lady’s death, Mary arrived at my door as soon as dawn broke, tense with anger and sorrow, her dress
pulled tight across her taut shoulders. We caught a cab to Whitechapel together. All the way there Mary sat bolt upright, staring ahead of us, silently willing the driver to go faster. He would not
take us into Whitechapel itself, but dropped us off on the Whitechapel Road. We didn’t invite one of the Irregulars. I didn’t want them to see what we would see.