The House at Baker Street (30 page)

‘I see,’ Billy said, peering at the bill. ‘Difficult, but not impossible.’

‘Quite.’

‘But . . . would Mr Holmes have done it like this?’ he objected. He picked up one of Sir George Burnwell’s bills. It was printed with the same instructions at the top.
‘Look, these are obviously printed at the same place. They even have the same irregularity at the corners. Mr Holmes . . .’

‘Not if Mary’s life were in danger. He would have followed the trail, as I am doing,’ I asserted firmly, though not entirely sure I was right. Mary would have tracked down the
irregularity in the printing too, but there was no time, none at all! I glanced up at the clock.

By ten o’clock, I had my solution. I knew what he was doing. I would find out where he was. I knew how to find him. And Mary, whilst she might be afraid, would never be helpless. She was
clever and devious. We would win. We
had
to win.

‘Next measurement.’

The bills were full of cab rides. Sir George had met his solicitor all over London – at his home, theatres, hotels, coffee shops. Irene had requested his representative
pick up papers from all sorts of people, again all over London. We had a good number of distances to work from.

It was odd though. The thought struck me halfway through. Why now? Why, after all these years, try to entrap Mr Holmes? Who had suggested it? Was there, perhaps, someone standing further in the
shadows, guiding him, pointing him in the right direction, suggesting clues to entice and lead?

I shook the thought away as soon as I had it. I had no time for speculation, not now. But I would return to that thought in the years to come.

The clock was striking half past twelve as I drew the last circle. Billy had fallen asleep, his head pillowed on his hands. The rooms upstairs were silent. It felt as if I were
the only one awake, not just in this house, but in the whole world.

I looked at my map of London, covered in crosses and circles. The circles all intersected at one place, on the edge of Richmond.

A completely blank field.

I sat there, staring at the spot on the map. Had my calculations been wrong? Was my clever idea not so clever after all? What was I failing to see that was there before me?

I held my head in my hands, grasping my hair, trying to force myself to think. I needed one more deduction, one more leap from clues to knowledge, but it would not come. According to the map,
according to my theory, Mary had been taken to an empty field. Was that possible, even probable?

That was when a candle flickered in the draught and I caught sight of the date of the map. It was two years old. And as I noticed that, I remembered something I had seen in today’s
newspaper. I reached over to where I had placed it on the chair beside me. Halfway through the paper was the advertisement. Newly built homes in Richmond, suitable for professional men and their
families. Some already built and available for viewing, the rest to be built by the end of the year.

Not an empty field then. A field of half-built houses.

I left a note for Billy to say that if I wasn’t back by seven in the morning, he was to let Dr Watson know what had happened, and to be sure to say it was all my fault. I
had thought of asking for help: perhaps this would all be beyond me. But Mr Holmes was drugged, and who knew when Dr Watson would return? There was no time to wait. I reached for my hat – and
stopped. No hat. No sign of respectability this time. I merely fastened my coat. As I reached the front door, it occurred to me that the solicitor could have someone watching the house, so as to be
forewarned when Mr Holmes finally came after him. I went through the back door, to the exit from the yard Mr Holmes thought I did not know about. I slipped through the faulty fencing into next
door’s yard, and then through the hole in their wall that they had never had fixed. I squeezed through the narrow gap, almost too tight for me, down the side of the houses, into the next
street. I walked along there until I could cross to the Marylebone Road, where I was sure to get a cab.

That escape route should have been convoluted enough to throw off any pursuer. It certainly left me breathless and grubby, and the cab driver almost didn’t stop for me. You can get almost
anything in London, at any hour, and there is always a cab waiting to take you where you need to go. I told the driver the address, and though he objected to the distance, I promised him a large
tip. I settled down as the cab rattled through the night to Mary – and to the solicitor.

Perhaps you think I should have woken Mr Holmes or fetched John, or brought Billy. Perhaps I should have called on Irene. Perhaps I should have gone to Scotland Yard and laid
it all before Inspector Lestrade or Inspector Gregson. Perhaps I should have waited, and sent someone else, anyone else.

Or perhaps you understand why I did not do any of those things, why I had to do this alone. And if you do, perhaps you understand more than I did, for I did not really understand at all. I only
knew that I must play this final act alone, centre stage.

One way or another, by the time the sun rose, this would all be over.

It was a long drive to Richmond, long and silent and dark. I finally had time to reflect. Mary: she must have known what was happening when she got into that carriage; she must
have done this deliberately. She had walked right into danger. She could get hurt. She could die! How could she go?

How could she not. She was Mary, after all. I remembered that first sight of her, so steadfast, so sure of herself. I remembered her excitement at hearing of Mr Holmes’ cases. I remembered
her longing for something, anything to happen. And with all that came other memories. Her comforting hand over mine. Her laughter at her terrible scones. Her request to be my friend. The
instinctive way she turned to me and became my partner in this game. She let herself be taken into the trap because she knew I’d come after her. She was sure I’d follow the last clues
and track her down. She had absolute faith in me. She had more faith than I had. She was my friend. She was my only, most precious friend. I couldn’t lose her. I would not lose her. I would
not
. I called up to the driver to go faster.

I had anticipated using the lengthy cab ride from Baker Street to Richmond to plan my attack – what I should say, or do, how I could rescue Mary, how to tie together the
loose ends that still dangled before me. And yet, all through the night ride, my mind remained blank. My hands knotted together where they rested on my lap, and I stared unseeing out of the window
as crowded streets gave way to gentler peaceful roads, giving way to the blank darkness of countryside, and still my mind would not think.

I seemed to be separated from the world outside the cab. The noise of the wheels on the road, the feel of the cracked leather seat, the faint, hot smell of the tiny cramped space and the soft
sound of my own breathing was all I was aware of. I could feel only the pinch of my clothes on my flesh, the scratch of a badly placed stitch on my gloves, the knot where the stocking had turned in
my shoe. Nothing else in the world existed.

The journey seemed to last for hours. The roads were empty, the horse fast, but the night seemed to stretch on and on in front of me and I found I could not imagine a dawn.

I did not have any plan at all when the driver pulled up in Richmond, and called down to me that we had arrived.

I climbed out and held up my fare.

‘Please wait,’ I said.

‘Here?’ he asked. ‘In the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night?’

‘Well, you can go back to the centre of London by yourself, or wait here for a short while and return with a paying fare,’ I said, more sharply than I intended. Of course, the paying
fare might not be me. There was a chance instead that the solicitor would come running out, and flee in this cab, but it was a chance I had to take.

The cab driver nodded his assent and I looked around. It wasn’t quite the middle of nowhere, but close enough. The street itself was only half-built and gas had not yet been laid on for
the lighting. Foundations had been dug on both sides of the street, and the houses were in various states of completion. Some had walls and roofs and doors, but some were just great piles of bricks
looming out of the darkness, shapeless and formless. The beginnings of the houses looked like ancient monolithic ruins in the dim light. This place felt heavy and old and evil, less a place of
modern innovation, more a place of ancient sacrifice. The air was cold and still. No one was here. Nothing stirred. The building had frightened the wildlife away. The entire street felt like it was
waiting, unfinished, needing something else to complete it, and I remembered old stories of blood sacrifices in ancient homes.

But then I ordered myself not to be such a silly old woman.

I gave a shake, and berated myself for a lack of logic and cool thinking. I looked around. Most of the street was dark, but there was a little light coming from one of the very few completed
houses. I could see a low, two-storey villa, surrounded by a high hedge, and a path to one side, presumably leading to the back garden. This must at one time have been the show house for this
development, and had stood here, complete, as the others were built around it. From there a pale milky light bled through into the night. It appeared to be the only inhabited building on the
street. This, then, was my destination.

I headed towards the path at the side. I felt calm now. Not peaceful, but with this odd stillness instead. It reminded me of what Hector had once said about how a soldier becomes just before a
battle. It is almost relief that the waiting is over, and the worst has now come, and now all he has to do is face it head on, and get it over and done with.

I was right; the path led to the wooden panelled fence of the back garden. The gate was not locked. I slipped through onto the lawn. I remained in the shadows as I took in what I could see.

Before me were large French windows, leading to a room that seemed to be some kind of study. One window was open onto the garden. There was a desk up against the wall, a table, book-lined
shelves against three walls, all lit by two oil lamps, one on the desk, one on the table by the window. A green leather chair was up against the desk, and, incongruously, a rough kitchen chair
right in the middle of the green carpet. And on that chair, bound to it by rough ropes, was Mary.

She was half facing me, but slumped, and her eyes were closed. Her wrists were bound to the straight arms of the chair, another rope passed around her middle. and her feet were also tied to the
chair’s legs. There was blood on her dress, a bruise on her cheek and a cut on her forehead. Her dress was torn and her hair hung loose and bedraggled.

Mary had fought. Once she knew what was happening, she’d fought like a tigress. She had left her mark before he bound her.

There was a man standing there: of middling height, slightly plump, dark hair oiled down, rounded shoulders. His dove-grey coat was torn, and I could see the back of his hand bound with a
bandage. This was the hand that held the gun, pointed at Mary.

There was another gun on the desk, close by his hand, ready loaded, I imagined. These were not revolvers, but single-shot guns, very old-fashioned. I wondered why he used these? Perhaps this was
all he had. He did not strike me as a man who liked to use guns. His preferred weapons were words, and if he could not use words, then knives. I moved closer, across the lawn.

‘Who’s there?’ he called, and turned.

I froze still.

It was him: the man I had talked to outside the Whitechapel Lady’s home. Her solicitor – her murderer. His face was pinched and plump, and he still had pince-nez firmly clamped to
his short, slightly bulbous nose. His eyes were small, but his face was very much what you would expect to find behind the desk of a legal firm. His hair – which I guessed was dyed that
unnaturally dark colour – was parted in the middle and plastered down to his head. He was all very much as he was before, when I talked to him in the street and Mary was rude to him, the very
pattern of a solicitor. He stopped for a moment, talking off his spectacles, laying them down, then pinching his nose. They must hurt him. He was obviously very tired. He turned, suddenly.

‘Holmes, I know that’s you!’

He did not look like a man to be afraid of. He looked like a man to be overlooked, to have his skills used, but never to be befriended. He was a man to be ever so slightly mocked. Someone to be
found always in the background, someone to be underestimated, someone to be ignored.

Well, him and me both. I stepped into the light.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

‘I am Mr Sherlock Holmes’ housekeeper. I am Mrs Hudson.’

I stepped into the room, through the window, making sure to keep him between Mary and me. I wanted to make sure he could point the gun at only one of us. With Mary unconscious,
he chose me. He kept the gun aimed in my direction, turning as I entered the room and peering at me, obviously bitterly disappointed.

‘Mrs Hudson?’ he repeated, confused.