The House at Baker Street (7 page)

‘And you haven’t deduced anything?’ Mary teased gently. ‘I’m not the detective, my love, merely the doctor.’ He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. Mary
and Billy turned to Wiggins, preparing to move him to the other room beyond the pantry and prop him on the bed and tuck his sheets in and generally bother him under the guise of making him
comfortable. But before John left, he turned to me and said gently, so that no one else heard, ‘He was doing something for you?’

‘Something simple,’ I promised, clasping my hands, torn with guilt. ‘I hadn’t realized it would be so dangerous.’

‘That’s how it always starts,’ John said grimly, ‘something simple, then there’s danger and guns and fights and people get hurt. What are you up to?’

I bit my lip. My life was a tangle of promises. Which ones would I keep? I dared not speak.

‘Secrets,’ John said softly, nodding. ‘I’m surrounded by them, and if I’m honest,’ he glanced towards Mary, fussing over Wiggins, ‘I’m as guilty
as all of us of keeping secrets. Only don’t get hurt, will you?’

‘Mary will be in no danger, I promise you,’ I said equally softly.

He snorted. ‘I’d like to see you stop Mary once she’s set on her path, no matter how dangerous it is!’ he said, just loudly enough for Mary to hear. He dropped his voice,
took my arm and pulled me into the hallway. ‘Look, if Mary got hurt, it would hurt me deeply too, and she knows that. Her safety is my responsibility, and hers too, and she is more than
capable of taking care of both herself and me,’ he added, in a whisper. ‘I meant you, Mrs Hudson. Don’t you get hurt. It would break both our hearts.’

‘You and Mary . . .’ I started to say.

‘I didn’t mean Mary and me! I meant Holmes and me!’ he interrupted. I must have looked dubious, because he said, ‘He does have a heart. He doesn’t use it much, but
it’s there. And you’ve got your place in it.’ He kissed me gently on the cheek, the kiss a son gives his mother. ‘And a place in my heart, too. Don’t you forget
it.’

I still remember the very first time I saw Mary Morstan. I answered the door one morning to find her standing there in a plain, neat but slightly faded light brown dress. She
was taller than me, and slender. She held up her head, not proudly, but with a certain confidence. She was lovely, not conventionally pretty, but with a refined, expressive face, blue eyes, and
coils of heavy gold hair. She carried a packet of papers tightly bound, and she had a determined set to her mouth. When I opened the door, she smiled at me, quite the sweetest smile I had ever
seen.

‘Good morning. I am looking for Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ she queried, in a low, well-mannered voice. She had the faintest trace of a Scotch accent. My mother and my husband both being
Scottish, I have a fondness for that proud and glorious country, and I instinctively smiled back at her. I opened the door wider, and directed her up the stairs.

She hesitated for a moment, and I saw the hand that gripped the packet tremble slightly, and then tighten. Her manner was poised, and yet there was something in the way she looked up the stairs,
as if she were unsure of what she was doing, perhaps even slightly nervous.

‘They will be kind,’ I assured her spontaneously. I surprised myself. I never normally spoke a word beyond ‘come in’ and ‘up the stairs’ to Mr Holmes’
clients, yet something about her touched me, and made me want to reach out to her.

She looked at me, her blue eyes wide, and then smiled.

‘Thank you,’ she said softly, and then, with what I was to learn was a characteristic gesture, she put her shoulders back. She took a deep breath, and ascended the staircase.

When she came back down again, I happened to be in the hall – out of idle curiosity, I assure you; I had nothing useful to be doing there. She saw me and stopped at the foot of the
stairs.

‘Thank you, Mrs . . . ?’

‘Hudson,’ I said to her. She looked happier, almost glowing. ‘It all went well then, Miss . . .’

‘Morstan. A great pleasure to meet you.’ She held out her hand to me; something that happened so rarely I almost didn’t know what to do. I grasped it, and we shook hands, as
men do when they decide to become instant friends. ‘It all went very well. Thank you for your comforting words, they were a great boon. And you were right, they were indeed kind.’

I had wanted to dislike Mary for changing our perfect little household. Instead, she became my greatest friend and bound the four of us even tighter together. She changed all
our lives, quite unwittingly. Mary Morstan – Watson these days – was now part of the family of 221b.

Once John had left, Wiggins opened his mouth to say something, but Billy placed his finger to his own lips to shush him and walked towards the door.

It wasn’t that we didn’t trust John not to reveal what little he knew, or guessed, but Mr Holmes was so very good at deducing entire stories from tiny little details. When we were
sure John was safely upstairs, I had Billy help Wiggins along to the small bedroom on the basement floor and get him into bed. I guessed Wiggins would rather not show weakness to Mary or me, nor
would he wish to undress in front of us. Once we were certain Billy and Wiggins were out of earshot, Mary opened the vent.

We could hear that John was in the rooms above, cleaning his instruments. Mr Holmes must have asked what had happened, because John was telling him that Wiggins had got himself hurt in a fight,
he had patched Wiggins up, and yes, Wiggins was going to be perfectly all right.

So far, so good. But then Mr Holmes asked where Mary was. John replied that his wife was in the kitchen, feeding cake to Wiggins, and was that coffee in the pot?

Mr Holmes hesitated, and then he said, in a low voice, ‘I don’t like to say this to you, but she’s up to something. Mrs Watson, I mean. And maybe Mrs Hudson too.’

‘Probably,’ John said, very unconcernedly. ‘After all, I usually am, why shouldn’t she be? Where’s the cream?’ Mary smiled – some secret joke between
husband and wife.

‘She is keeping a secret, I am sure,’ Mr Holmes said. This was followed by a rattle, which I believe was him passing John the cream. ‘Are you not curious?’

‘Very. But she will tell me what she has been doing eventually, just as eventually I will tell her what I’ve been doing all day with you.’ It must have been a strain on John,
balancing between his wife and his best friend, but it did not cause his voice to waver one iota. Mr Holmes was right; John had a spine of iron. ‘Actually, I think I prefer tea,’ John
said lightly.

‘John,’ Mr Holmes started to say, and I held my breath. He called his friend ‘John’ so rarely I knew he was going to say something momentous, but John stopped him.

‘Look at my hat, Holmes. It is dusted. My shoes are clean, my collar ironed, I am several pounds overweight. My wife still loves me,’ he told him, laughing. ‘Look, Holmes, I
love my wife with all my heart and soul, and I am certain she loves me the same way.’

Opposite me, also leaning against the wall to better hear what came from the vent, Mary smiled.

‘But,’ John continued, ‘I spend most of my free time running around solving cases with you – which I enjoy greatly, and which has given me a good deal of satisfaction,
not to mention a wife. She has never once objected to my time with you – in fact, she encourages it. She sees it as my doing some good in the world, and I believe she feels she owes you a
debt, for our marriage. If she, in her turn, wishes to spend her free time with Mrs Hudson doing something that interests them far more than sewing shirts and baking cakes, then I have no
objection.’

‘If you say so,’ Holmes grudgingly replied. ‘But is what they are doing safe? Wiggins seems quite badly hurt, judging by the amount of bandages you used.’

‘Oh, I am sure they are safe,’ John told him, suddenly sounding quite loud, as if he were right next to the vent. ‘They made a promise.’

Then there was a loud bang – John had closed the vent. Mary jumped back from the wall, startled.

‘He closed the vent!’ she cried, her cheeks flushing, either with anger or embarrassment. ‘He made that remark about our promise, and then closed the vent. Do you think he did
that deliberately?’

‘That vent is high up on the wall, and very stiff to open and close,’ I told her. ‘So, yes, I think he did that deliberately.’

We stood there aghast for a moment. What a discovery! John knew we listened – how long had he known? Had he known all along? I had only ever opened that air vent and listened when the
kitchen had been silent. I had no idea he could hear me. Mr Holmes had certainly never hinted he could hear me.

But then we couldn’t help it. We laughed. Like a pair of naughty schoolgirls caught eating sweets in bed, we laughed.

Once we had quietened down, I went to the room where Billy had settled Wiggins. He was just tucking his friend in, taking the greatest of care with him, keeping his arms free
of the blankets. For once Wiggins looked like just a boy, small and hurt, needing help, though his eyes were as fierce as ever. I sat on the end of the bed, Mary standing behind me, and said,
‘Tell us everything.’

He took a breath, calmer now, and cradled his sprained arm. I thought of leaving him, waiting for him to tell us later, but I knew he would not sleep until he had made his report. He was
conscientious.

‘I was following the gent – the husband. It was Billy and me, ’cos I’m teaching him a few tricks of the trade. The bloke was just having a normal day – went to the
office, came out at one for lunch, went to the same chop house he always goes to. But then, instead of going back to work, he went for a walk down by the river. And not a posh part neither, he went
down to the docks. Right into the dangerous bit. Right where he might get jumped or murdered by anyone, just for the hanky in his pocket, and no one would stop it neither, though it was broad
daylight. And he knew it too. He looked . . . what was it you said, Billy?’

‘Apprehensive,’ Billy added. ‘His face was pale and his hands were shaking. I do not think he wanted to be there.’

‘No, he did not,’ Wiggins continued. ‘And neither did I, ’cos the docks is not a good place to be. Boys get snatched there.’

‘Snatched for what? By whom?’ Mary asked. He looked at her darkly, as if he regretted saying such a thing. I doubt he would have done, if he hadn’t been so light-headed from
loss of blood.

‘I’d rather not say, missus,’ he said.

‘Oh . . . I see,’ she said, glancing down at me. Wiggins occasionally opened up a whole new dark foul world to us, which we had no idea existed.

‘Perhaps Mr Shirley was going to a shipping office,’ I suggested.

‘Ain’t no shipping offices down there,’ Wiggins pointed out. ‘Leastways, not one a gent like him would use. ’Sides, he never went to no office. He kind of stopped,
and looked round, to see if anyone was following him. He didn’t see me, nor Billy either. We’re too good at that game to be spotted by the likes of ’im! Then, all of a sudden, he
darted down these stone steps, right by the water. He was in the open there, nowhere for us to hide, but I knew whatever was happening would happen down there, so I told Billy to wait up top and I
went down the steps too, like I was just a river rat, looking for a bit of work, or a bit of rubbish, you know. ‘There was a man down there, right by the river. Light shining up onto his
face, sunlight reflected from the river I guess. Couldn’t see him clearly. Mr Shirley went right up to him, and he kept saying something about not telling her, and begging he not tell her
’cos it’d break her.’ ‘Not tell her what?’ I asked.

Wiggins shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘What did the man look like?’ Mary asked, and Wiggins frowned.

‘See, I bin thinking ’bout that, over and over again, but when I close my eyes I can’t see his face, I just see the light from the river shining back at me, right in my eyes. I
keep thinking, ’cos I saw his face, just before the light blinded me, I know I saw it, plain as I see you, but I just can’t remember it!’

‘It’s the head wound,’ Mary said soothingly. Wiggins was getting agitated. ‘John says it plays havoc with the memory. Just don’t think about it, and it’ll
come back to you.’

‘What if it don’t?’ he cried, agonized by his failure.

‘Then it don’t . . . doesn’t,’ I told him. ‘We’ll find him another way. Did you see what he was wearing?’

Wiggins shook his head, but Billy said, ‘Pea jacket, dark peaked cap, shabby trousers. But they didn’t look right for him, he didn’t even move right in them. He walked very
odd, stiffly, as if he was trying to remember how to walk.’

‘Faking it,’ Wiggins said quietly. ‘Faking the whole lot of it. Did you see his face?’

‘No, the cap covered it,’ Billy said quietly. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, you did well. Remembered the clothes, spotted the walk. Well done,’ Wiggins said to Billy gruffly, and the boy shone with pride.

‘I remember his voice,’ Wiggins suddenly said. ‘’Cos of what he did next. He said to Mr Shirley, “I’m tired of you both. This game has reached an end.”
He had a posh, soft voice. It didn’t fit with the rest of him, I know that. And then . . . then he just pushed Mr Shirley in the river. No warning, not even a threat. ’E just pushed
’im, like he didn’t even care.’