The House at Baker Street (23 page)

‘That used to give me nightmares,’ I admitted. ‘The idea of those women controlling the lives of everyone, choosing when they were born, and what they did, and when they died,
and no one knew they were there, and no one could plead with them to change their fate. Mycroft Holmes reminds me of them, weaving and cutting the threads of someone else’s life, and no one
knows he is doing it.’

‘So, a clever man, with presumably infinite resources,’ Mary mused. ‘And yet he sends not his clever detective brother, but Inspector Lestrade – a man he knows to be
unobservant – to investigate a case of murder dressed up to look like suicide.’

‘He wants Lestrade to fail!’ I said bitterly. ‘He wants Adam Ballant’s death to be ruled a suicide.’

‘Why?’ Mary asked.

‘Mycroft collects secrets,’ I said. ‘He has an army of young men to do his bidding, and now one of his young men is dead. Goodness knows what secrets he had.’

‘You don’t know that Adam Ballant was one of Mycroft’s spies,’ Mary objected. ‘That’s just supposition.’

‘A young man who does mysterious work for the government?’ I pointed out. ‘Mycroft sends Lestrade to investigate his death? A young man who, by the way, has the skills to evade
the Irregulars?’

‘Very well then, an educated guess,’ Mary conceded. ‘Even Sherlock isn’t above those, given the right data. And we have lost our primary suspect. Do you suppose
it’s like this for Sherlock?’ she asked, grinding her foot into the path. ‘All dead ends and unexpected twists and unforeseen circumstances? Do you think he spends days chasing
down leads, and is so sure he’s right, only to run up against a wall, and find not only is he wrong, but he has nowhere to turn?’

‘Probably,’ I told her. ‘But it won’t be in John’s stories. Mr Holmes wouldn’t mind, but John does like to present him as all-powerful.’

‘It was such a perfect solution!’ Mary cried out, stamping her foot in frustration. ‘It was such a clever scheme – the villain pretending to be a victim amongst victims!
But it wasn’t true. Everything seemed to lead this way.’

‘It was a trick,’ I said slowly. I was beginning to understand now. ‘Like the trick with the safe. It’s all tricks and games, all of it. Don’t you see, Mary,
someone is enjoying this. Someone is playing with us. All of this, it’s one big game.’

I raised an umbrella and hailed a cab.

‘Where are we going?’ Mary demanded.

‘The Diogenes Club.’

We were, of course, not allowed into the Diogenes. But I knew Mycroft would have to leave, sooner or later, and luckily, it was sooner.

‘Mr Holmes?’ I asked, stopping him on the street. It was one of the beautiful wide streets near Whitehall, with government buildings soaring above us on either side, carved angels of
commerce and Empire gazing down at us. It was a place of power and influence, thronged by men – though it did not escape my notice that the angels were all women.

‘Mrs Hudson?’ Mycroft Holmes said, with only a moment’s hesitation. He walked along the street as a man would walk along his garden path, secure and comfortable and knowing
that all this belonged to him. ‘And Mrs Watson, I presume,’ he said, tipping his hat to her. ‘A pleasure to meet you, finally.’

‘And you,’ Mary said, openly curious. ‘John has mentioned you several times.’

‘Ah yes, the estimable Dr Watson,’ he said. ‘And yet, ladies, you seem distressed. Is anything wrong with Mr Holmes? Or Dr Watson?’ Ah well, in for a penny, in for a
pound. I did not want to be subtle with this most subtle of men.

‘Adam Ballant is dead,’ I said. He did not flinch. Give him his due, that man knew how to control himself. Mr Holmes always gave something away, even just the iota of a movement, but
not his older brother.

‘I don’t know that name,’ he said.

‘He came to see Mr Holmes,’ Mary said. ‘He said he was being blackmailed. He said he’d been sent to Mr Holmes.’

‘By you,’ I lied. Adam Ballant had not mentioned him at all. ‘His employer.’

‘I see,’ Mycroft Holmes admitted. We stood there, this immensely secretive and powerful man, and two women, right there in the heart of government, and for a moment, we had him
shaken. ‘He should not have said that.’

‘He was very worried,’ Mary said. ‘Perhaps he wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘Did Sherlock send you?’ Mycroft asked, and I was suddenly aware that I should not overplay my hand. I did not want him to know that we were investigating. I did not want him to know
that Mary and I were the detectives this time. I didn’t want him to know anything about us.

‘No, we bumped into Inspector Lestrade,’ Mary said, as I pulled slightly on her sleeve. I wanted to end this now. I was afraid, all of a sudden. This was a mistake. We had to
leave.

‘Yes, I sent him,’ Mycroft said, and his grey eyes were cold and assessing, and he was looking at us, really looking at us, and I knew he was trying to see who we were, what we were.
‘So you see, I knew.’

‘You said you didn’t know him,’ Mary pointed out, ignoring my growing uneasiness.

‘He worked for me,’ Mycroft admitted. ‘But his work was secretive. It is a matter of habit to deny my . . .’

‘Spies?’ Mary finished.

‘Agents,’ he corrected.

‘We don’t need to know all this,’ I said quickly. ‘I just saw you in the street and thought you ought to know Mr Ballant was dead, as we had seen him at Mr Holmes’,
and he said he knew you.’

‘And how did you know he was dead?’ Mycroft asked, as smoothly as a blade through silk. ‘I understand the body was only discovered this morning.’

‘Coincidence,’ I said quickly. ‘We happened to be walking in that street this morning and . . .’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Mycroft Holmes. ‘I have already had a preliminary report from Inspector Lestrade. Good morning, ladies.’

He left, walking away down the street.

‘How odd,’ Mary murmured, watching him go.

‘He’s more than odd,’ I said. I was shaking. I felt like a rabbit trapped by a snake’s gaze, and then the snake moved on.

‘He might be Sherlock’s brother, but I don’t like him,’ Mary said. ‘He strikes me as a very strange man.’

Strange. Odd. A man who liked lies. A man with his own network of spies. A man with links to the police and the lawyers and the highest men in government. A man who liked power. An intelligent
man who could see your secrets with a glance. In fact, a man who
collected
secrets.

Maybe there was a very good reason I didn’t like Mycroft Holmes.

Surely it could not be true, and yet, he did fit all the criteria.

‘Mary, what if it’s him?’ I said suddenly. ‘What if Mycroft Holmes is the blackmailer?’

‘It can’t be,’ Mary said firmly.

‘Why not?’ I demanded. ‘We thought it was Adam Ballant just because he called at 221b. Why not someone closer? Why not Mycroft Holmes?’

‘It can’t be,’ Mary repeated, but she was less certain this time.

‘We need more evidence,’ I insisted.

‘We always need more evidence,’ Mary said, as we walked away. ‘I still refuse to believe it’s Mycroft Holmes. I think you just don’t like him. But we’ll add
him to the list.’

John often joked that if Sherlock Holmes had not been a detective, he would have been a truly great criminal. What if the other Holmes brother had taken that path, and used his skills not for
good, but something truly evil?

I felt light-headed, dizzy almost, as we walked along the street. My mind felt full of names – Adam Ballant, Mycroft Holmes, John Ripon, Patrick West, unnamed men I hadn’t even begun
to think about yet. We seemed to hurtle from suspect to suspect, with no clear idea of where we were going or what we were going to do, and we were relying upon guesswork as much as cold, hard
facts. I felt like this case was out of my control, a runaway train in danger of leaving the tracks. I doubted that Mr Holmes, with his cool precision and logical mind, ever felt like this.

And yet how did I know that? I walked along in silence, aware that beside me, Mary was also deep in thought. Who knew what Mr Holmes felt when he started a case and was met with a plethora of
suspects and clues and events? Perhaps at the beginning it seemed impossible to make sense of it all for him too. Perhaps he could make sense of this one . . .

But then I thought of Laura Shirley, alone and terrified. I thought of the Whitechapel Lady, torn and broken in spirit and body. I thought of all the other victims out there, believing they were
alone, living day by day in dread and persecution, thinking it would never end. No, I would not give up just yet. This was my case – mine and Mary’s. We had sworn to help these people
– these women – and by God, we would.

But we desperately needed a breakthrough.

I saw a glimpse of the River Thames on the way back. It always made Mary smile a little. She said the river had brought her and John together, in a way. I never really knew
what was happening in the case John called
The Sign of Four
, the case where he first met Mary Morstan. I had heard the original consultation after I had let Mary into the house, of course. I
knew she had received a mysterious message inviting her to a meeting. It had come from the same person who had sent her six beautiful pearls, one a year. But that was all I knew. Most of that case
happened away from 221b – which was very disappointing. I know that Mr Holmes had been very frustrated by his inability to find the boat the villain had taken to escape down the Thames, and
he had paced in his rooms all night.

So when John arrived at 221b with Mary and called out to Mr Holmes ‘the box is empty!’ I really had no idea what they were talking about. I was about to open the air vent to
eavesdrop when Mary, all in white, appeared at the entrance to my kitchen.

‘I thought you might like to know, as you were so kind to me when I arrived that first time,’ she said softly, ‘the treasure is lost.’ She didn’t look like
she’d lost anything of great value. She was glowing.

‘Treasure?’ I asked, motioning her in.

‘Don’t you know?’ she asked, as she sat down. ‘No, of course, how could you? It must be very vexatious to live in this house with these men and see all these people come
and go and hear odd little snippets here and there and sense something exciting is happening but never really knowing what is going on.’

It was such an accurate assessment of how I felt that I’m afraid I stared at her for longer than is polite, until the kettle on the hob whistled. She sat down at the table.

‘I know what it’s like to be on the outside looking in,’ she told me. ‘The Forresters were very kind, but I was still only a governess to them, neither one of the family
nor one of the servants.’

‘What were you saying about treasure?’ I asked, as I poured the tea. ‘I know of it, of course. Dr Watson mentioned it, but how did it come that you had this wealth waiting for
you?’

So she told me the whole story of the Agra treasure. It was a wild, fascinating story of how a one-legged man called Jonathan Small and three Sikh soldiers had plotted during the Indian mutiny
to kill a man for the jewels he carried, jewels he thought would keep him safe. Small and the others were caught, and imprisoned, with the jewels hidden still. Small had made a deal with Captain
Morstan, Mary’s father, and his friend, Major Sholto: his freedom in return for the jewels. Major Sholto had gone to find the jewels and, dazzled by their wealth, betrayed and deserted both
Jonathan Small and Captain Morstan, returning to England a rich man. But he was never happy. He was sure that one day Small would return for his revenge. He was riddled with guilt over betraying
Morstan.

The Captain had sent Mary to Britain years ago, but he had returned eventually. She planned to meet him – but he disappeared. Then the pearls started coming, once a year.

Mr Holmes and John had discovered her father had died of a heart attack brought on by an argument with Major Sholto. When Sholto had died, his twin sons had argued over the treasure. One said it
belonged to Mary. The other, as greedy as his father, insisted on keeping it. The pearls they sent to Mary, one a year, were their compromise. But now one of the twins was dead, victim of Jonathan
Small’s revenge, and the treasure was gone.

‘They say, by rights, the treasure is mine,’ Mary added finally, as I poured her another cup of tea. ‘But I don’t think so. It’s come to me via murder and blackmail
and betrayal, and what kind of legacy is that? Besides, I don’t want it. It’s brought nothing but misery to anyone who owned it. Those stones are soaked in blood,’ she said with a
shudder.

‘Where are they now?’ I asked.

‘Jonathan Small threw them into the Thames when he was being chased in a boat by John – I mean, Dr Watson and Mr Holmes,’ she told me, blushing prettily over the lapse in using
John’s first name.

‘You could have sold them,’ I said to her. ‘The money would have been useful.’

She shook her head. ‘I want none of them,’ she said vehemently. ‘I would have liked a memento of my father, that is all. My mother died when I was born, but I can just remember
my father. I remember a tall man with sandy hair and a moustache that used to scratch me when he kissed me. I remember him throwing me up in the air and catching me, and my ayah convinced he would
drop me. And perhaps I wanted to remember India too,’ she said, her voice dreamy, her gaze far away, beyond this London kitchen. ‘I was so young when I left, only five, that what I can
remember seems like a fairy tale. I cannot tell what is true, and what are stories my ayah told me. I can just remember heat so thick you could almost touch it, and dust that settled everywhere and
caught in your clothes and the joy of a tall cool drink on an achingly hot day, and the colours. Oh, Mrs Hudson, the colours! I’ve never seen anything like it, not in this country. The
buildings all dazzling white, and the clothes and the spices and the food and even children’s toys all bright and shining and like jewels themselves, all shades of red and yellow and
blue.’