The House at Baker Street (29 page)

‘Yes, Mr Holmes has one,’ Billy replied. I asked him to get it, and a gazetteer of Yorkshire.

Ten minutes later we crouched over the table, matching names from the gazetteer to names from the register. Some of these names would be innocent, of course – many solicitors were called
Leeds or Halifax without being cold-hearted murderers. But some of them would be him. They must be. If he was playing a game, he would insist on sticking to the rules.

Bit by bit, the scattered red crosses on the map grew. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to them. His offices were scattered all over London, with no particular pattern to them. Poor areas,
rich, middle-class – he was everywhere. It worried me, how many names could be him.

As we were marking the twentieth cross, I heard a commotion from upstairs. Someone was banging on the door, and shouting.

‘That’s John,’ I cried out. Billy ran up the stairs and opened the front door, with me just behind him.

‘Sorry, couldn’t get my key,’ John gasped. ‘Give me a hand.’

He was supporting a pale and collapsing Mr Holmes. We helped them over the threshold. Blood dripped from Mr Holmes’ arm, his jacket draped over it, the shirt torn where John had treated
the wound. I gave a cry when I saw the injury, I must admit.

‘Don’t fuss, Mrs Hudson!’ Mr Holmes snapped.

‘Ignore him,’ John said. ‘He always gets in a foul mood when he’s been stabbed.’

‘Stabbed?’ I gasped, as was expected of me. I wasn’t actually that worried, just mildly concerned. This was not the first time Mr Holmes had come home in such a state. In fact,
I believe it was the fifth. ‘By whom?’ Was it the quarry we had seen him chasing earlier? Had he become tired of Mr Holmes chasing him?

‘A common thief,’ John said, hauling Mr Holmes towards the stairs. ‘It’s nothing really, just a graze.’ He must have seen my dubious look, for he whispered to me,
as Mr Holmes shrugged him off and insisted on climbing the stairs himself, ‘It looks worse than it is. This is more exhaustion than blood loss. You know how he works himself.’

‘Too hard,’ I replied grimly, following Mr Holmes up the stairs. Honestly, he was dripping blood all over the carpets. Never mind, I had long ago come up with a chemical formula of
my own to remove blood. ‘I’ll send him some warm water and hot tea.’

‘Not hot tea, I beg of you!’ Mr Holmes cried, opening the door himself, despite John pushing past me and reaching for it. ‘I’d as soon drink tepid pond water!’

‘You’ll drink it, and do as your doctor tells you!’ John insisted. To me he said, ‘That would be helpful, thank you. With plenty of sugar.’

I nodded in acknowledgement, and looked over John’s shoulder into the rooms. Mr Holmes leaned against the back of the sofa, staring, in the very dim firelight, at some bookshelves –
or rather, at the gaps left by the books Billy and I had borrowed. He turned and looked at me, puzzled. I remained imperturbable, my hands folded in front of me, the very picture of a respectable,
not too intelligent, very commonplace housekeeper.

‘Good night, Mr Holmes,’ I said to him, as he opened his mouth to speak, and then I gently closed the door.

I did smile as I went down to the kitchen. I didn’t know how long it would last, but for a moment there, I had confused the great Sherlock Holmes!

I sent Billy up with the water, tea and sandwiches, then I quickly mopped up the worst of the blood. What was left would dry to the same red-brown as the stair carpet and be
unnoticeable by morning. Once that was done, I sat down at the table and looked at the map. I heard Billy come in and sit down at the table. He was still wide awake, but, I confess, I was starting
to feel a little sleepy. Perhaps it could wait until morning.

‘Mrs Hudson?’ John called, coming down the main stairs. I hurried out of the kitchen before he could come in and see what I was doing.

‘Is he all right?’ I asked, standing in the hall.

‘Mr Holmes is fine,’ John replied. ‘He’s asleep. I gave him a sedative; he won’t wake for hours. Is Mary here?’

He looked so worn. Looking after Sherlock Holmes was an exhausting job.

‘No, Mary went home hours ago,’ I told him.

‘I have to go to Scotland Yard,’ John told me. ‘I have to find Inspector Gregson. The man who stabbed Holmes is still out there, but if we wait until morning, we may lose
him.’

‘I understand. I’ll send Billy to let Mary know,’ I reassured him.

‘It’s so late. I’ll be out all night,’ John told me.

‘Billy’s still awake,’ I reassured him. ‘And Mary would like to know.’

He nodded and left, briskly walking down the street. I sent Billy out a moment later, with a handful of cash for the cab. Then I went back down to the kitchen, and stared at the work I had
done.

The candles had burnt down – it was almost half past nine at night. The remaining light was dim, and flickered across the room. It was so dark in there now, so quiet, after such a busy
day. I had twenty crosses marked on the map. Let us say, at a conservative estimate, that just over half of those were legitimate solicitors. That left approximately nine names. Nine men taking
secrets and promising to keep them safe, these nine men actually one foul fiend, a liar, a cheat, a blackmailer, a murderer. How many stories had he heard? How many women had sat before him, some
weeping, some defiant, some ashamed, and confided in him, only for him to turn and bite? Only for him to bring about the very ruin they came to him to avert. All for the thrill of a game, for
him.

How many had he killed? Some of those secrets he had taken from maidservants and prostitutes and other women not quite as important as his quarry. He hadn’t played at being their
solicitor, he had been their tormentor. They had seen his true colours when he threatened and used and abused them. Even the ones that had started out as allies had become his victims. He
couldn’t rely on them to keep silent. They must have died – we knew some had. I remembered when we were researching, way back in the beginning, I had spotted some incidents that now,
given what I knew, would fit. The occasional report in newspapers of the death of an unimportant girl – often blamed on a male follower, someone of her own class. But the reports had become
that bit more disturbing, the murders that bit more heinous, the wounds that bit more horrific, until it culminated in the ripping apart of the Whitechapel Lady. He would not stop there. As in the
blackmail, as in his games, he had refined and perfected his technique of murder, and he would not stop. Like Jack the Ripper, his crimes would become more and more gruesome and horrific.

Of course, Jack had stopped. But I had my own theories about that, and they were not along the lines of sudden remorse or satiation.

I sighed. It was late and I was tired and my thoughts were becoming gloomy. It was time to stop. Mary could look at this in the morning with fresh eyes. I had no doubt she would see something I
had missed. I blew out the candles. As soon as Billy returned, I would go to bed.

As I had that thought, Billy hurtled through the front door and down the stairs into the kitchen. He was out of breath.

‘Not there . . .’ he panted. ‘She got a note . . .’ He held a scrap of paper out to me. It was a folded note, and the writing on it was startlingly like Mr Holmes’.
It read ‘Come at once. Watson hurt’.

‘There was a carriage,’ Billy said. ‘The housemaid said it took her away.’

‘Sit down,’ I ordered, suddenly wide awake. ‘Dr Watson is fine; Mr Holmes did not send this note.’ I studied the note intently. The handwriting was unfamiliar, the paper
not mine. It was a moment before I realised what had happened. ‘It was a trap, he’s taken her.’

‘Taken Mrs Watson?’ Billy cried. ‘Why? What do they want?’

For a moment I nearly said ‘me’, and then I thought – no. I looked up, to the rooms above me, where all was silent now. Kidnapping Mary was far more likely to draw out Dr
Watson, and hence Mr Holmes. This man was tired of waiting for Mr Holmes to put together the clues and had decided instead to lure him. He would be expecting John and Mr Holmes. He might even be
watching them. As for me – I was just the housekeeper. I was unimportant. I was just another pawn.

‘Mr Holmes gets that look,’ Billy said softly, staring at me. ‘That sort of frozen look you’ve got now. Only when he’s really angry. Dr Watson says it frightens
him. Mr Holmes will stop at nothing when he looks like that.’

‘Yes,’ I said, placing the letter on the table. ‘I am very angry.’

‘Should I find Dr Watson?’ Billy asked, standing up.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I won’t place them in danger, too. Besides, he is out at Scotland Yard and likely to be out all night.’

Billy sat down again. He did not argue.

I was afraid, and upset, and confused, and tired, but most of all I was angry. A white-hot anger that burnt bright enough to scorch. I was angry that those I loved were being used by this man, I
was angry at being overlooked, I was angry that Mary had fallen for such an obvious trick, I was angry at myself for giving up on my life but most of all I was angry at
him
for every man and
woman ruined, every life ended, every happiness destroyed, every drop of blood spilled, every woman who felt lost and alone and afraid.

I looked down at the map, and the papers. The clue was here somewhere, and I would find Mary. I would change the rules and cheat and lie and win.

‘I will play the game.’

‘What first?’ Billy asked. I looked down at the map. All I really had was a mass of red crosses scattered randomly across London, and a game I knew only half the
rules to. And the fear, of course. The fear that Mary was trapped, and helpless and afraid, and that I, in my stupid pride, was condemning her to death. That I could not do this alone, that I had
no way of doing this, that I did not know what to do next, and it would be Mary who suffered.

‘He charged them for everything,’ Billy said, seemingly from nowhere. ‘Not just work, but papers, pens, meals, cabs, everything.’ I turned to look. He was reading a bill
that he had picked up from Irene’s papers.

‘Solicitors do,’ I told him, taking the bill. ‘Especially this one. He’d charge you for the air you breathed if he thought . . .’ My voice trailed away as I read
the bill. Amongst sundry other items – carefully catalogued – was one particular charge.

Cab to Briony Lodge, Irene’s house. 9 ¾ miles.

I picked up another bill. There it was, below the expenditure on seals.

Cab to Claridge’s. 11 ½ miles.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. I caught my breath so sharply I swayed a little and had to clutch the side of the table.

‘He left us clues!’ I said to Billy, who looked alarmed by my sudden breathlessness. ‘He had to lay a trail, so he left us clues!’

‘He did?’

‘The cab rides – he has given us the length of the journey from his home to these locations,’ I explained, holding out the bill. ‘Find me all the bills you can. I know we
only have Irene’s and Sir George’s but hopefully that will be enough.’

‘What if the cab rides weren’t from his home?’ Billy asked, as he riffled through Sir George’s papers. ‘What if they came from his office?’

I hunted through the kitchen drawer where Billy kept his school equipment for his lessons.

‘No,’ I said emphatically. ‘For a start, those offices either don’t exist, or are nothing more than letter-drops. I doubt he goes anywhere near them. For another,’
I continued, as I found the ruler and the compass with a pencil that I was searching for, ‘he wants us to find him. Well, he wants someone to be clever enough to find him, I should
say.’

I took the sheaf of bills from Billy’s hand, and he went round the table, replacing the burnt-out candles with bright new ones.

‘Billy, read out the first distance again.’

‘Briony Lodge, 9 ¾ miles.’

I measured out 9 ¾ miles against the guide at the edge of the map. Then I stretched the compasses out to the correct distance. I put the point of the compass roughly where Briony Lodge
was, and drew a circle.

It was crude, but it was a start. The circle encompassed a wide area of West London, and some of the centre too. There, within that circle, somewhere near the edge, we would find our
solicitor.

‘But it could be anywhere inside that circle,’ Billy pointed out. ‘London’s streets all twist round each other. Five miles could be two roads over.’

‘Read the bill,’ I countered. ‘At the top, there’s a pre-printed message.’

‘“All meals charged for are undertaken on client’s business”,’ Billy read. ‘A justification for the charges?’

‘Read on.’

‘“All charges for sundries such as pen, ink, paper etc. are undertaken at standard rate commensurate with hours worked on client’s business. All distances are measured
‘as the crow flies’.” So five miles really would be . . . ?’

‘Five miles from his destination,’ I confirmed.

‘That doesn’t seem right. Isn’t it a bit obvious?’ Billy asked dubiously.

‘Billy, this is a trap,’ I said gently. ‘From the moment Laura Shirley came here, to the death of the Whitechapel Lady, even the kidnapping of Mary, this has all been a trap.
And what use is a trap if you do not lay a trail for your quarry?’