The House at Baker Street (33 page)

His house of secrets had claimed one last victim.

The cab was still waiting for us as I slipped out of the garden door and into the street, Mary beside me. All that had taken only an hour. The driver was staring at the flames
beginning to show above the fences. The entire house was going to burn.

‘Baker Street, please,’ I said calmly to him, as he watched the fire. He turned to look at me.

‘Was that you? Did you do that?’ he demanded, gesturing towards the burning house. Mary clambered inside the cab.

‘Of course not, I’m just an old woman,’ I told him. ‘Baker Street. Two-two-one-b Baker Street,’ I repeated, but he did not move.

‘We’re making a daring escape!’ Mary called from inside the cab.

‘Daring escape – oh, I see, Baker Street!’ he realized. ‘You work for Mr Holmes?’

‘If you like,’ I said wearily, climbing into the cab.

Mr Holmes was well known amongst the cabbies of Baker Street. He was forever ordering them to follow some other cab, or leading them on some improbable journey to the unlikeliest of places. It
seemed easier to use that reputation.

We set off slowly, through the half-built homes of Richmond. It would be dawn soon, but for now, the sky was still an intensely dark shade of navy blue. I stared out of the window into London,
passing by – safer now, but who would know? From somewhere I could hear clanging bells. The fire engines were already on their way. And then the story would be spread through the telegraph
wires, told over the telephone, printed in the papers – but no one would ever know what really happened.

I sat back, looking at Mary. Her face was still covered in dried blood. I took out my handkerchief and tried to clean it off. She smiled shakily at me, and I smiled back. After all that, we were
alive.

‘He deserved it,’ Mary said firmly to me. ‘He deserved to die like that.’

I wanted to feel guilt. I wanted to feel remorse. I wanted to feel even just a trace of sorrow for the man that had just died, and the part I had played in his death, but there was nothing
there. There was no triumph either, no gloating. Not even satisfaction. Just a feeling that now the job was done, and I could stop. There was just – a blankness. Had I forgotten how to
feel?

‘Perhaps he should have had a fair trial,’ I ventured.

‘Do you honestly think he could have had a “fair trial”?’ Mary cried indignantly. ‘What with all those secrets he had? He would have had the prosecuting barrister
and the judge and half the jury and the police and, for all we know, the Home Secretary in his pocket. Who would have dared testify against him, and ruin themselves in court? In the end, he would
have just walked away.’

‘And yet, to die like that . . .’

‘Listen,’ Mary told me, sitting up and taking the handkerchief off me. ‘I knew it was a trap, as soon as I got into the carriage. I thought, this is stupid, Sherlock would
never send for me like this. But I went into that man’s home anyway, because I wanted to know. I wanted to ask him questions.’

‘I can understand that,’ I agreed, watching her. Dawn was rising, not a dull grey as usual, but as an opalescent sheen that lit up Mary’s face.

‘So I asked him, and he wanted to tell. No one had ever known what he had done, and he wanted to boast. Don’t we all want someone to know how clever are we are, otherwise
what’s the point of being clever? So he told me.’

She shivered, and looked away, into the half-dark of the morning.

‘He’d done horrific things,’ she said softly. ‘Those he’d driven to suicide, those murdered by others because of what he said, those he murdered himself. He told me
things I will never tell you, because no one should speak words like that ever again. He gave those women slow, painful, agonizing deaths, and he gave others perpetual pain, and he enjoyed every
last second of it. You heard some of it yourself! I heard far more.’

She turned back to me, her face fierce and strong in the first of the light.

‘He had an easy death compared to them. He deserved much worse.’

She was right. Yet still I felt empty now, a drained and echoing shell. Outside, people had started to stir, to go about their daily business, calling to each other and walking about, and I felt
oddly disconnected from them, as if either they or I weren’t real. I did not know how to get back to my normal life after what I had done. It had all gone now, the excitement, the challenge,
the stimulus, the danger, and it felt like nothing was left behind.

For the first time I understood why Mr Holmes used his 7 per cent solution of cocaine.

I thought back. The solicitor had said there was someone who had guided him, pointed him towards Mr Holmes, nurturing his darkest urges. Was this person real, or just another aspect to his
personality, his own personal Jekyll?

‘We can’t tell anyone,’ Mary said suddenly.

‘About tonight, or all of it?’ I asked. ‘I wasn’t planning on telling anyone what we did tonight. I don’t think it reflects well on us.’

‘All of it,’ Mary said seriously. ‘All those secrets. We know so much; if we went to the police, we’d have to tell everything we knew. All about the Whitechapel Lady and
Adam Ballant and Irene, and then everything would come out in the inquest and end up in the papers and everything we worked for would just fall around our ears.’

‘That’s not all,’ I added. ‘Did you hear him say there was someone else in the background? Someone with an interest in Mr Holmes?’

‘Do you think he was real?’ Mary asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I mused. He had mentioned a name in his ramblings, just the merest murmur under his breath that he hadn’t wanted me to hear. But my hearing was excellent.
‘Perhaps not. But if so that could be anybody, and if he knows what we did . . .’

‘He could take revenge on us.’

‘Use us to take revenge on Mr Holmes,’ I interjected. What was the name? Moore? Morris? ‘If this person believed Mr Holmes carried out tonight’s work, then killing us
would be a suitable response. No, you’re right. No one must know.’

I stared out of the window again. No one would know what we had done – both the good and the bad. We had been working as much in the dark as the solicitor had.

I’d never even found out his real name. I don’t suppose it mattered.

‘I’m so tired,’ Mary said sleepily, resting her head on my shoulder.

‘I’ll ask the cab to drop you off at home,’ I said to her.

‘No, we’ll go to Baker Street,’ Mary insisted, yawning. ‘The stories always end at the house at Baker Street.’

I smiled to myself. It didn’t matter what I felt right now. I was being ridiculous. Mary was safe, Irene and Wiggins and Mrs Shirley and numerous unknown women were safe. That would have
to do for now. In fact, that would do very well.

‘Stop, stop,’ I cried suddenly. We had turned into Baker Street, finally, having been caught up in the dawn traffic. There, across the street, waiting for us, were
the Irregulars. The boys were scattered, some in doorways, some lounging against a wall, some sitting on the kerb. Wiggins stood alone in the centre of the street, the morning light showing his
face clearly. He was angry.

I jumped out of the cab.

Wiggins strode towards me.

‘What the ’ell have you done?’ he growled.

I stood back in surprise. He had never spoken to me like that before.

‘Are you all right, missus?’ the cab driver called.

‘Perfectly, thank you. This is a friend of mine,’ I said, never taking my eyes off Wiggins, hoping it was true.

‘You were seen,’ Wiggins told me, his voice low and angry. ‘Think you can get out of Baker Street without one of us seeing yer? You got a cab hours ago, going south – to
Richmond, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Where there’s a fire!’ Wiggins shouted. ‘And a man dead, a man with a lot of people interested in what ’e did and how ’e died!’

The cab driver studiously looked away, making it clear he heard none of this.

‘How do you know?’ I said. I was badly shaken.

‘’Cos I got a boy at Scotland Yard,’ Wiggins said, quieter, but still furious. ‘’E cleans boots. ’E cleans Lestrade’s boots, and he ’eard that
Lestrade was personally taking over a case that ’ad just come in, a respectable solicitor burnt to death, and some very prominent people were taking an interest. ’E’ll be in
Richmond by now.’

‘Oh,’ I said feebly. Lestrade knew. On the one hand, he could find it all an accident. He probably would. But what if he brought in Sherlock Holmes? What would he discover? And what
prominent people did Wiggins mean? Had someone else begun to suspect?

‘Was it you?’ Wiggins demanded between clenched teeth.

Could I lie to him, this boy? Should I? I looked round at all the boys gathered on the street. They had all been in my kitchen, had eaten my cake and drunk my tea. Micky saw me, and tipped his
cap. They respected me, and liked me and maybe even looked up at me. Could I tell them what I had done?

‘Yes,’ I said softly.

Wiggins stepped back, drawing his breath in sharply. He turned away, so I wouldn’t see his face, then came back to me.

‘Was it ’im?’

‘It was him,’ I told him. ‘And now he’s dead. The man that hurt you, and killed the Whitechapel Lady, and hurt so many other people and did awful things . . .’ My
voice trailed to a halt as Wiggins stepped closer. He was as tall as me. When had that happened?

‘You stupid woman,’ he hissed. ‘How dare you do that alone!’

‘I wasn’t alone . . .’

‘You were alone, both of you! Anything could have happened!’

‘Anything did,’ I said shakily.

‘It’s not funny!’ He was worried, really worried about me, and I realized the anger came not from disappointment or disillusionment, but anxiety, like a mother shouting at her
child when he runs away.

‘I had to do it alone,’ I told him quietly.

‘Why? Wot do you think we’re ’ere for? It’s for you! It’s for all of you in that ’ouse!’ He gestured towards 221b.

‘I had to prove it,’ I insisted.

‘Prove wot?’

‘That I’m not a silly old woman who’s only fit for baking cakes!’ I shouted.

Wiggins’ face cleared up. He understood that. He had to prove himself over and over again. He’d never survive on the streets if he didn’t. He had to prove he was more than a
boy every day.

‘Well, you’re not that,’ he said, and mercy of mercies, he grinned. ‘Though you do make decent cakes.’

I nodded my thanks. Between us two, that was as good as a hug.

‘Promise me you won’t do it again, though?’ he asked.

‘I can’t,’ I told him. ‘Look, can you promise me you’ll never cheat, or lie, or steal? Never, not even to protect your boys? Because I can never promise I’ll
never get into trouble again, not to save someone who needs my help.’

Wiggins looked round at his boys. He’d do anything to protect them. And now, looking at me, he recognized a kindred spirit of sorts.

‘How’s the arm?’ I asked. His other hand went hurriedly up to his injured arm.

‘It’s all right,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Sorry I bled on your floor.’

‘Probably not the last time,’ I told him.

He smiled sardonically.

The sun was up now and the street was beginning to get busy. The cab driver yawned pointedly, loud enough to cover the yards between us. I ignored him. ‘Micky’s invited for
gingerbread this afternoon,’ I said to Wiggins. ‘Will you join him?’

He hesitated, then nodded. He peered into the cab at Mary.

‘You’d better get her inside,’ he said to me. ‘She don’t look none too clever.’

‘I will, thank you,’ I said. And thank you for wanting to protect me, thank you for looking after me, thank you for bringing me Billy, thank you for bringing yourself, thank you for
coming to my kitchen to eat gingerbread. I could never say those words, he’d hate them, but we both knew I was thinking them. I walked round to Mary’s side of the cab.

‘And look out for Lestrade,’ Wiggins called. ‘He wants to solve this one.’ Then, in a moment, the Irregulars melted into side streets and alleyways and had all
disappeared.

‘Thank you,’ I said to the driver as I helped Mary out of the cab. I paid the driver well, and gave him a huge tip. Mary was very tired, which was hardly surprising given the night
we’d had. ‘If the police should ask, by the way . . .’

‘I ain’t seen a thing,’ the driver said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Mr Holmes and the police don’t always get on, do they? Well, I’d rather be on Mr
Holmes’ side.’

‘Right . . . um, thank you,’ I said, as he drove away.

Mary and I stumbled through the door of 221b, utterly exhausted, drained, bloodstained and scorched. That was when we saw Mr Holmes, standing at the bottom of the stair, fully dressed, his wound
apparently healing nicely, staring at us as we came in.

‘You’ll wake Watson,’ he said.

‘No we won’t, he sleeps heavily,’ I said to him.

‘What have you been doing?’ he demanded, apparently in amazement.

‘Can’t you guess?’ Mary asked sleepily, leaning on me.

‘I don’t guess,’ he said coldly. He looked us up and down, saw the state of our clothes, the expressions on our faces, the tiredness in our eyes, and a new look crossed his
face, one I had never seen before. I am not sure if it was confusion, or worry.