The House at Baker Street (11 page)

I looked up, searching for a way out. Instead I saw a woman leaning against the wall, clearly a prostitute, strapping a knife to her thigh. She saw me looking and called out, ‘Getting
ready for Jack, dear, just in case.’

‘Jack?’ I said, gasping. For a moment I thought she meant the man the Whitechapel Lady had spoken of, the one that had whispered her husband to death, and her to a living horror.

‘The Ripper!’ she answered, as if I was stupid. Perhaps, then, I was. ‘He may be gone now, missus. Nothing to say he won’t be back tomorrow. They say he ’ad enough,
but men like ’im, they never get enough blood.’

She left for her evening’s work, and I turned to Mary. She still looked horrified.

‘What have we got ourselves into?’ she begged of me breathlessly. ‘What have we promised?’

We left Whitechapel quickly, guided by Billy and tracked once again by a member of the Irregulars. Although I wasn’t sure we needed a protector now. We had changed in
that hour: we no longer seemed so innocent. Whitechapel fought and cheated and thieved and killed and sold itself all around us, but we were no longer shocked. No wonder the Whitechapel Lady lived
here, and not in some rich, beautiful place. In that mass of angry, damaged humanity, she was practically invisible.

‘She can’t be the only one,’ Mary said as we walked along. She had recovered quickly, quicker than I had. ‘If what she says is true – and I see no reason that she
should be wrong – he gets his satisfaction not from money, but from the destruction of lives. No, wait . . .’ she said, stopping in the street all of a sudden. ‘Not from the
destruction of lives,’ she went on slowly. ‘If that were the case, he’d still be haunting the Lady. He gets his satisfaction from the total power he has over their
lives.’

‘He’ll leave the Shirleys alone now then,’ I said, gripping her arm and persuading her to walk on again. ‘I think he can have no more power over them.’

‘That kind of torture is too exquisite to have been refined overnight,’ Mary continued, oblivious to the street surrounding her. I had to pull her around great hulking men, and
blowsy, argumentative women. ‘He’s practised this on many other people, mark my words,’ she said firmly, as Billy led us down an alleyway that came out into a more salubrious part
of town. The streets here were wide, and clean, the company more respectable. Still, a part of me believed there was as much cruelty and anger here as in Whitechapel, but it was better hidden. We
walked down the street, past a row of shops. Mary was still talking.

‘But who else? Who else has he inflicted this on? It’s not the sort of thing that gets into the papers. How else do we find these poor people?’

We stopped for a moment, so I could catch my breath. I was still upset, and had walked far too quickly to get out of Whitechapel. We had paused before a photography studio, the kind of place
that displayed photographs of famous society women. We stood there for a moment, aimlessly staring at the pictures of these proud, lovely women, dripping with jewels and silks, so secure in their
place in life. Given what we had just heard, how could we help but wonder which of these women was being hunted by him now? Mary suddenly gasped, and laughed a little bit. I swear it was very akin
to the way Mr Holmes was when he made a sudden discovery.

‘I know how to find his other victims!’

‘How?’ I asked. She gestured towards the display of the society ladies.

‘We need to find women who have disappeared from society. The kind of woman who attended all the balls and galas and plays, who went to court and hunting and so on, and then who just
disappeared.’

‘I agree,’ I told her. ‘But we don’t move in those circles, and we don’t know anyone who does. How do we find these women?’

She frowned for a moment, but then inspiration struck.

‘Doesn’t Sherlock know someone? Didn’t he mention a man he knew, a man who knew all the secrets of society? A man who sat in a window in St James’, gathering
gossip?’

‘Sherlock?’ I said, a tad giddily. It still seemed presumptious of her to call him Sherlock, but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘Oh, you mean Langdale Pike.’

‘I know him,’ Billy piped up. ‘Mr Holmes has sent me to him often. He watches everyone. He writes a gossip column, but he keeps a lot more secrets than he tells. Mr Holmes says
he thrives on secrets like a bee thrives on flowers.’

‘Actually, he sounds less like someone who can help and more like our blackmailer,’ I pointed out, unsettled by his description of Langdale Pike. I had never been quite comfortable
with Mr Holmes seeing him – I didn’t like the idea of him telling Mr Pike secrets of his clients, even if it was in return for even greater secrets.

‘No, not him,’ Billy asserted. ‘He’s the kind of man who likes to watch, not to get involved. Otherwise Mr Holmes wouldn’t have anything to do with him.’

‘I suppose not,’ I said dubiously.

‘If Sherlock trusts him, I do,’ Mary said staunchly.

‘I know where to find Langdale Pike,’ Billy volunteered. ‘I can take you.’

I was so tired. It had been such a day; I could take no more. I needed to be alone to think. And besides, I had seen something.

‘You go, Mary,’ I said. ‘I must go home.’ I looked in the window again. Yes, right there. I had seen it.

‘Will you be all right alone?’ Billy asked anxiously.

‘Perfectly all right,’ I assured him. I waited until he had stepped into the street to hail a hansom, and then said to Mary, ‘I think I have seen him.’

‘What?’ Mary said, startled. I put my finger to my lips, and nodded towards the window. She saw what I saw too. ‘You can’t,’ she objected.

‘I damned well can, and will,’ I asserted (yes, I even swore). ‘I am tired of only listening and watching. I must do something. You do your part, and I will do mine.’

Mary looked at me, and she knew. She was my friend, and she knew when she could help, and when I must be left alone. She nodded reluctantly, and then she and Billy got in the cab he had
hailed.

I turned back to the window, seemingly absorbed in the photographs, but really looking at the reflection in the glass of the street.

Behind me stood a man. He looked perfectly ordinary. In fact, I would not have noticed him at all, except for a distinct splash of whitewash on the back of one sleeve. He must have brushed up
against a freshly painted wall somewhere. He had no other distinguishing feature. He would not stand out in a crowd. He melted into the background of this street – just as he had melted into
the background of at least three street corners in Whitechapel and the square outside the Whitechapel Lady’s clinic. I now recalled he had been on the omnibus to Whitechapel. This perfectly
ordinary man had been following Billy, Mary and me all afternoon.

I went straight home, aware of the ordinary-looking man following me all the way. Perhaps I should have made an effort to shake him off, but I didn’t have the first idea
how to do that. Besides, he probably knew where I lived – or if not, it would do no harm to let him know I lived with the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes.

And I had another goal in mind. I kept trying to catch sight of his face so I could recognize him again, but he looked too bland. His features slipped away from me like water. I would catch a
glimpse of him, but be unable to describe him. I could only recognize him by the white splash of paint on his sleeve, and no doubt once he saw that distinguishing mark, he would destroy the jacket.
Even his clothes were ordinary, just a simple working man’s jacket and trousers, such as could be seen all over London. If he was Jack Ripon, or whatever name he used now, I would not be able
to recognize him again.

I admit I was shaking by the time I let myself into the house. I had done nothing wrong in my life, nothing to be ashamed of, yet I was afraid. What could he do to torment me? What could he do
to torment those I loved?

The house was empty. Wiggins had taken advantage of our absence to run back to his own streets, as I had known he probably would. This, after all, was not his home. At least he left warm and
well-fed. Besides, the Irregulars needed him. I was just surprised he had stayed so long. It was only a few days, but he never normally stayed longer than a few hours. Mr Holmes and John had gone
out chasing a lead, leaving a hastily scribbled note on the kitchen table: ‘Back at 11. Probably.’

That was not the only news. On the mat was a letter from Mrs Shirley’s solicitor. It explained that Mrs Shirley was taking Mr Shirley to Harrogate to take the waters, and hopefully
recover. Therefore, although she thanked me for my services, they were no longer needed. In the solicitor’s dry, legal language, I was freed from any obligation to Mrs Shirley.

I felt lost, bereft almost, returning to that empty house. The minutes of being followed had left me with a creeping fear, and I had badly wanted company – preferably that of Mr Holmes. He
had a way of making me feel safe. I went up to his room and looked at the street through the net curtains. I saw the ordinary man – or Ordinary Man as I now thought of him – stare up at
the house, right at the window where I stood. I knew he could not see me through the curtain, yet I shuddered. Then he walked away.

Who had sent him? Was it connected to Mr Holmes? Or was it my case? Was he the tormentor – or was he sent by the tormentor? Why follow me at all? Why not just try to stop me? So many
questions were filling my mind.

I stood there for a long time in Mr Holmes’ rooms, by the window. I stood and watched the people of London go by. I saw other women in black like me, and young men hurrying through the
street, and sandwich sellers flirting with maids and errand boys dawdling. Opposite 221b I could see a man, tall and blond, in his mid-thirties, very correctly and properly dressed, carrying a
stick, though he obviously did not need one. He was very upright and respectable, with his blond moustache and dark suit. He was staring up at Mr Holmes’ window, stroking his moustache with
one hand, and stepping off the kerb to cross, and then back on again. I recognized the signs – he was what John called a ditherer. Possible clients of Mr Holmes who could not make up their
mind to come in – they needed help, but were too embarrassed or too proud to ask, so they dithered on the pavement. Mr Holmes had been known to fling open the window and shout at them to come
in, for God’s sake! Twice this man made to cross the road, twice he checked the address on a piece of paper in his hand. Whoever he was, he was the pattern of a perfect gentleman – the
kind of man who, if he was in trouble, would go to the police and expect them to solve all his problems. His problem must be deeply embarrassing to drive him to a private detective. He made up his
mind – he walked away.

So he had a secret. He would not be the only one in this street. How many of them out there had a secret? According to Mr Holmes, they all did. How many of them were in pain, in fear, in need?
How many of those calm faces hid a heart in turmoil, a soul in want? Far more than I previously suspected. Mr Holmes was out helping one right now. And I – I could help too. Maybe I could
save a few souls in need myself, I just had to be brave enough. As dusk fell, I swore that Mary and I would carry this burden on.

Besides, I may have been frightened and confused, but I also felt alive for the first time in years. I was finally living my life, not just participating in someone else’s. For the first
time in a very long time, I was achieving something that was my own. I was thinking and deducing for myself, and it made my heart beat and my blood race. I felt like a racehorse that has spent its
life in the paddock, and now, suddenly, has come onto the course and raced past the starting tape. I would not, could not, stop now.

So, when Mary and Billy returned, I was sitting at the kitchen table making notes of all that had been done so far.

Billy dashed straight out to find either Mr Holmes or Wiggins, whichever one he came across first, whilst Mary took off her fashionable lilac hat and walked across the kitchen.

She was as comfortable in that room as I was, and as she talked, she walked round the table.

‘What was happening when I left you?’ Mary asked. ‘You didn’t seem quite yourself.’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Well, no, not nothing, but I’ll tell you later. I want to hear about Langdale Pike first.’

‘But—’

‘Later, Mary,’ I insisted. I didn’t want to talk about the Ordinary Man yet. I still wasn’t quite sure that I had not imagined the whole thing. I didn’t want to
make a fuss about him and then look like a foolish woman if I was wrong.

‘Well,’ Mary said dubiously, but eager to tell her story. ‘Very well. Mr Langdale Pike is a very strange man. He is very thin, very precise in all his movements and dress. He
has dark hair – which I suspect is dyed, and very dark skin. Do you know, I almost think he wears make-up? His face was unnaturally smooth. He is dressed in the height of fashion, but more
flamboyantly than is general. For example, his frock coat is green, not black. He spends all day – all afternoon, I should say, for he sleeps all morning – in the window of his club in
St James’ Square, where, of course, I could not go. However, he does spend one afternoon a week walking in Hyde Park. I believe he likes to spot lovers sneaking off into the bushes, and Hyde
Park is where Billy found him today. Billy, knowing him already through Mr Holmes, very properly introduced him, and Mr Pike scrutinized me very sharply. He has the very darkest eyes, very piercing
– I was almost afraid, for it seemed he could see through me to my very darkest secrets – then I remembered my secrets were not so great, and I merely stared back at him. He seemed to
like that, for he dismissed Billy, and gestured me towards a bench.

‘“A very worthy partner for Dr Watson,” he said to me, as we sat – and do write that down for I want to tell John that one day when he is being difficult. “And how
is Mr Holmes?” he inquired.

‘“Well and busy and he has no idea I am here with you,” I told him. I thought it best not to lie. I’ll lay ten to one he can sniff out a lie like Sherlock can sniff out
cigar smoke.