The House at Baker Street (21 page)

‘If you were hiding a pin, where would you put it?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t hide a pin, I’m always losing the blasted things,’ I told her.

‘The best place to hide a pin,’ Mary said softly, ‘is on a pin-cushion, amongst all the other pins.’

She turned and walked on, lost in her own thoughts, barely aware if I followed or not. I did not need her to explain. The best place to hide a blackmailer would be amongst his victims –
and we had both felt that Adam Ballant did not quite fit. Too secretive and yet too eager to talk. And too skilled at evading a pursuer. I could see Mary was up to something, and I would lay a
wager she was planning a visit to Adam Ballant.

Eventually we found ourselves on Whitechapel Road and hailed a cab. We sat in silence all the way back to Baker Street. I do not know how I looked, for Mary never glanced at me, but I recognized
the set look of Mary’s features. I had seen Mr Holmes look like that, when someone vulnerable and helpless had been hurt. I had seen John look like that, too. I knew that look. It was
vengeance.

It’s no surprise to anyone that Mr Holmes had a streak of darkness running through him. A man like that, who could think like that, with his strength and cunning, could so easily be
tempted to take the law into his own hands, beyond detection into judgement and execution. But John had kept that side of Mr Holmes in check. And John, with his burning anger and his brief but
sharp temper, could be checked by Mary.

But now here sat Mary, with the darkness etched onto her face. The same need to see revenge achieved, at any cost. Who would keep her safe? Who would stop the darkness claiming her?

I suppose that was supposed to be me. Yet when I thought of the flowers, I too wanted to see him burn.

When we arrived back at 221b, there was a large package waiting for Mr Holmes on the hall table. The address was printed, but I knew it came from Irene and contained the
letters. I directed Billy to take it up right away.

Mary, exhausted, decided to go home. I set to cleaning the kitchen. I was in the middle of turning out a cupboard when Billy ran in and cried, ‘I’ve just shown Sir George Burnwell up
to Mr Holmes!’

‘Really?’ I wiped my hands on a dry cloth and rolled my sleeves back down. ‘Billy, did Mr Holmes open that package he received this morning?’

‘Yes, he did,’ Billy assured me, ‘but he only had time to glance through it.’ I didn’t seem to need to tell Billy what was in it. Between what Wiggins told him,
what he had overheard from Irene and Mary and me, and his own intelligence, he seemed to have worked it out. He stood on a kitchen chair and opened the vent, and silently we sat down at the
still-damp table.

Mr Holmes must have asked Sir George to sit down, and assured him of John’s discretion. That was how these consultations always began. Of course John was there. Mr Holmes would barely see
a client without him. I could imagine the scene clearly in my mind, Mr Holmes standing before the fireplace – where his face was in shadow and the light from the window shone directly onto
his visitor’s face – surprising his visitor with an example of his perspicacity. John sat in a chair behind the visitor, taking notes in his small brown leather book. Sir George would
have sat on the sofa, and behind him, on the table, would be the parcel containing his ledger and his letters.

I could hear Mr Holmes talking in that tight, clipped manner he has when he dislikes his visitors. However, he has never allowed his personal dislike of a client to stop him taking a case, and I
was apprehensive. What would Mr Holmes say if he discovered the criminal in this case lived under his own roof ? I genuinely had no idea.

I listened as Sir George told Mr Holmes how he had returned home the previous Saturday evening, with a perfectly respectable companion he was not prepared to name. He had discovered three
desperate ruffians in his study, had fought them off bravely, but they had managed to escape with some important papers, and burnt the rest.

‘Mr Holmes,’ Sir George said, in his suave voice, ‘it is vital I retrieve the papers these men took!’

Men. Well, that was lucky. He had seen only Irene clearly, as she cheekily waved goodbye to him, and she had been dressed as a man.

‘What exactly are these papers?’ Mr Holmes asked.

‘Private papers. The content is not important,’ Sir George insisted.

‘I say it is,’ Mr Holmes insisted in his turn. ‘If I do not know what these papers are, how can I tell to what use they have been put, or who is likely to have them? The truth,
please, Sir George!’

It is difficult to lie to Mr Holmes’ face when he demands the truth. His eyes bore through you, to the very heart of you. Sir George, I imagine, swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

‘A book,’ Sir George said hoarsely. ‘Merely a notation of some expenses. And family letters. Vital only to me, worthless to anyone else. Utterly innocent, I assure
you.’

‘I doubt that, Sir George,’ John said, and I could hear the distaste in his voice. ‘You have a certain reputation.’

I wonder how they knew? It occurred to me that perhaps some lady compromised by Sir George might have come to Mr Holmes for help before. Perhaps he already knew what he was dealing with.

‘Shall we speak the truth, Sir George?’ Mr Holmes said. ‘The ledger is no doubt some sort of “book of love” and the letters are from ladies you have seduced. You
mourn their loss because no doubt you hoped to use them for profit at some point in the future.’

‘I am not a blackmailer!’ Sir George snapped.

‘Not yet,’ John said. ‘But when you are older, and have gambled your money away, and have lost your ability to charm coinage out of these ladies, you will become a
blackmailer.’

‘No! I . . . I need those letters . . .’ Sir George insisted. I could hear the desperation in his voice. Why? He would acquire more letters, a new ledger, I have no doubt. Why did he
need these so badly? If he only knew they were in that room, within his reach. If he only stretched his hand out to the table . . .

‘Who was your companion?’ Mr Holmes asked. ‘I mean the night you were robbed, not any other night.’

‘No one of any importance,’ Sir George said sullenly. I could tell he was regretting his decision to come here.

‘A woman?’

‘Yes, a woman, damn you!’

‘A society lady?’

‘No!’

‘Then who?’ Holmes insisted implacably.

‘A woman of the streets, not anyone of any importance,’ Sir George said reluctantly.

‘Did she know you had these letters?’ John asked. Sir George was silent, and I heard him shift on the sofa. Then he spoke, in a quieter, almost ashamed tone.

‘I was drunk. Very drunk. I may have boasted. It is a habit I have. Not a pretty one, I admit. I mentioned the letters, I think. Or . . . I’m not sure. She asked about them. She
wanted to see how foolish these society women are. I don’t remember much,’ he admitted. ‘Normally I handle my drink a lot better.’

I should imagine the same thought crossed Mr Holmes’ and John’s mind as crossed mine: he had been drugged. No wonder he had barely been able to stop us, had not even been able to
recognize us as women. She had slipped something into his drink.

I felt a certain degree of satisfaction that Sir George had been tricked.

‘She asked to see the letters?’ Mr Holmes said sharply. ‘You did not tell her about them first?’

‘Yes . . . no, I don’t know!’ Sir George cried in anguish. ‘No, she asked! I remember. I remember her name too,’ he said viciously. ‘Lillian Rose.
That’s her name. I found her in Whitechapel!’

Whitechapel. All roads led there. Half the criminals in London hid themselves in the mish-mash of Whitechapel. Was that the final stop, or only a staging post?

‘She was a decoy,’ Sir George realized. ‘Find her, Mr Holmes. Get my letters back,’ he pleaded.

‘I will not,’ Mr Holmes said coldly. ‘No doubt Miss Rose and the burglars were sent to your house by one of these ladies you dishonoured to retrieve her letters. I will not
help you find them, or hunt down your victims.’

‘Then I’ll find her,’ Sir George said, standing up. ‘I’ll track down Lillian Rose . . .’

‘You will not,’ Mr Holmes told him, quickly, forcefully. ‘You will go home and keep quiet. If I hear of any harm coming to Lillian Rose . . .’

‘You daren’t tell the police. Think of what I could tell them! I could ruin half the noble ladies of England!’ Sir George shouted hysterically.

‘There are the police – and then there is Dr Watson and I,’ Mr Holmes said quietly. I heard the scrape of a chair as John stood up. I heard harsh breathing, as Sir George
panted like a cornered dog. Then he darted out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the front door before Billy could reach it.

Upstairs, I heard John say, ‘Holmes, have you seen what’s in this package?’

I heard the rustle of paper as Mr Holmes glanced through the letters and ledger, then I heard his great shout of laughter.

‘Well, that would have been the easiest fee we ever earned! Sir George begs us to find his papers, and here they are, not three feet behind him.’

‘Who do you suppose sent them?’

‘I have my suspicions,’ Mr Holmes said, and I wondered if he meant Irene. ‘But I’m not going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.’

‘The man is a cad,’ John said. He must have been reading some of the letters. ‘He really does deserve to be punished.’

‘Oh, he will be,’ Mr Holmes said. ‘Put those papers carefully away, Watson. I’ve no doubt the name of Sir George Burnwell will pop up again.’

Lillian Rose. She sounded like a woman who could answer a few questions. But first we had to see Adam Ballant.

Mary arrived early the next morning, whilst I was still clearing away Mr Holmes’ breakfast things. She had dressed as if for court, or battle. She was all in black, smart
and slightly intimidating. Her hair was neatly pinned for once, a black hat with an upturned side brim replacing her usual straw boater. She was very pale, but resolute. She was determined to face
Adam Ballant and have it out.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

‘Certain,’ she said grimly. As I was already, as always, all in black, we left to catch a hansom to Adam Ballant’s house.

Mr Ballant lived in a very quiet, clean, expensive street in the west of London. Very few hawkers and muffin-sellers cried down this street, the servants kept discreetly indoors, anyone too
scruffy would be moved on by the patrolling policeman – although this morning, the policeman was absent so we had the street to ourselves as we walked down it.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Mary admitted. ‘What do we say to him?’

‘We accuse him, I suppose,’ I replied. ‘I actually have no idea how Mr Holmes does this part. He always has his confrontations away from his rooms.’

‘We have no proof,’ Mary said, suddenly nervous, her hand tightening on my arm. ‘Just a bit of card and a few suspicions. Maybe we should . . .’

‘We can’t wait,’ I insisted. ‘If we stop we will stagnate, and it is far too late for that now.’

‘Of course,’ Mary said. We had reached the steps of Mr Ballant’s house, with its moss-green front door matching the moss-green curtains contrasting tastefully with the
brilliant-white stone of the house. Mary put her shoulders back, stepped up to the door and rang the bell firmly.

The door was opened not by a footman or butler, as we expected, but by what seemed to be the scullery maid, sobbing violently. Mary’s greeting died on her lips. The girl just stood there,
crying her eyes out.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked gently.

‘He’s dead,’ she cried out, gulping as she spoke. She seemed unable to contain herself now she’d started speaking. ‘He’s gone and hanged himself, he’s
dead, I saw it, he’s dead!’

‘Who?’ Mary demanded.

‘The master, right over the balcony, rope round his neck, like a common criminal, only he did it himself, he’s dead and I saw it and I can’t stop seeing it – and
he’s dead!’ With that she broke down sobbing into her apron.

Mary and I stood there, utterly dumbfounded. Dead? Our prime suspect, a suicide? My gaze drifted upwards to the staircase that ran from the black-and-white tiled floor up to the first floor,
sweeping around the hall. There was nothing there now, but I could see scratches on the banister, and smears of something on the highly polished floor, at least fifteen feet below.

A door to the right of the hall opened, and an elderly man with flyaway white hair came out. He saw the maid standing on the step babbling to us and hurried forward.

‘Minnie, that will do! Go to the kitchen, now,’ he ordered, not unkindly. ‘I apologize,’ he said to us. ‘She should not have answered the door. I’m afraid
we’re all not ourselves this morning.’ He seemed sad and worn and confused.

‘Is it true?’ Mary demanded. ‘Adam Ballant hanged himself ?’

‘I regret Mr Ballant has died in unfortunate circumstances,’ he said, remembering his duty and standing a little straighter. ‘The police have been sent for. I regret the
household cannot receive callers.’

‘I feel faint,’ I announced. ‘May I sit down for a moment? Just here, in the hall?’

Mary, grasping my lie, hurriedly took my arm to support me. The butler hesitated, but I was only a woman, obviously not used to such shocking news, and ladies were prone to faint. From
downstairs came a great cry – the servants were clearly getting worked up.

‘It’ll only be a moment,’ Mary said sweetly. ‘Then we’ll be on our way. It’s been such a great shock for her.’

‘She knew Mr Ballant?’ the butler queried.

‘As a child,’ I said weakly, hoping the butler had not been in the family back then. ‘He was such a beautiful boy. Such promise, then to die so young and so tragically . .
.’ I allowed my voice to fade away.

‘You don’t want her fainting on the doorstep where the whole world can see her,’ Mary pointed out.

The butler, prizing discretion above all – they all do – nodded, and guided me into the hall. There were some wooden chairs arranged there, against the wall, next to the door the
butler had come out of, and Mary solicitously placed me in one. I could hear a woman screaming somewhere.