The Hudson Diaries (2 page)

He nodded, and after gathering up his supplies we set to work. Some time had passed before we finally finished, and I feared that the damage might have already been done against my master. Rupert showed the drawing to Mr. Holmes, who was waiting in the sitting room. Apparently it was someone known to him, for I heard the front door close and Rupert returned. After about an hour’s conference, we parted. As night fell, I prepared a meal, though neither Dr. Watson nor I had much of an appetite. The candles were well burned down before Mr. Holmes returned. When I asked if he had caught the intruder, he went up to his rooms in silence and did not come back down.

A week passed in this manner. When they went out each morning, I fretted and feared the worst until my masters were both safely at Baker Street again, usually in the late hours of the night. Mr. Holmes also continued to inspect that silly piece of steel, so much so that I feared it might become an obsession. I did my best to aid Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, but it ended only in a sense of uselessness.

One day as Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and I were coming home from a stroll in Hyde Park, I pulled the house key from my pocket and Mr. Holmes’s eyes bulged.

“May I see your key?”

Confused, I held it out to him and he quickly took it from me, examining it closely as we went inside. I then watched him deftly pull out the piece of steel he had been inspecting the entire week.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” I cried, frustrated, “You cannot be serious!”

“But what is the matter?”

“You have been studying that little scrap for a whole week now; I’ve watched you. And now you believe there is some connection?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But what does my house key have to do with any of this?”

“It has everything to do with it!” Mr. Holmes muttered excitedly. He turned on a lamp and inspected them closely together once more.

“Watson, Martha, come here please,” Mr. Holmes said with some attempt at calm. When we had approached, he continued. “I have discovered something very important indeed.”

“What is it?” asked Dr. Watson, confused.

“See how this scrap has a serrated edge? This is what our burglar used to unlock the door. Your key, Martha, was the clue. It’s a wonder I didn’t see it before now.”

“But I still don’t understand…”

“This piece of metal is a skeleton key, or at least a part of one. Normal keys are fitted to the locks of specific doors, but skeleton keys have a serrated edge so that a thief can unlock several types of doors. Unfortunately for our burglar, he left a piece of his behind for us.”

From that time on, things began to look a little brighter. The listlessness that had fallen over Baker Street had all but disappeared; Mr. Holmes was once again his usual self when on the brink of solving an unusual problem.

One early morning, after an exceptionally long night, Mr. Holmes returned to Baker Street, his face clouded. I ventured to ask if he had found the letters or caught the burglar.

“No,” he said, “but my suspicions were confirmed as soon as Mr. Hudson showed me the drawing a week ago. The man you came up against was Fred Chandler. I caught up to him, but during the scuffle that followed, I discovered the letters were not on his person.”

“Who is he?” I asked tentatively.

After a slight pause, Mr. Holmes said, “He is a known forger and, when it serves his purposes, he becomes an informant who turns good men into criminals through his twist of tongue. He has also, it seems, become a cracksman in his time away from acceptable society. I once acquitted a man Fred had hoped to blackmail into oblivion, and in that same instant I convicted Chandler of his own crimes. He was later put on parole for good behavior but, as with most criminals, his “good behavior” did not last long. Since then he has tried to expose me in some way, though I have been able to elude him until now.”

I sighed and shook my head, realizing that my employment had come to a miserable end. “I shall gather my affects at once and leave you in peace.”

Mr. Holmes seemed quite astonished at my conclusion. “But why? Surely I have not done a deed which would displease you?”

“No, not at all,” I said, “but the thief has escaped, and because I could not protect your personal affairs, by this afternoon you shall be ruined.”

“Ruined? No, I expect not. The letters were not as damning as all that.”

“Then what was in them? Surely a man such as Chandler would use them to slander you.”

“Yes, he would. My hope, however, is that our endearing English public, should he ever publish them, would see past my foibles as a younger man and forgive me my trespasses, as they say.” He smiled slightly, but guilt still tortured me.

“What can we do?” I asked.

“Nothing; we can only wait.”

We fell silent for some time, until finally I could bear it no longer. “Mr. Holmes, is there nothing I can do to redeem myself to you after allowing this to happen?”

“Martha, do not fret. You are not in jeopardy. The fault was mine for making the letters so easily accessible. But if you would care to make a meal—I have a hearty appetite, and I am sure Watson would agree to your cooking—then all is forgiven.”

I nodded, and with that continued in the adventures of Baker Street, which I am a part of to this day.

An Intimate Case

In my first of many winters with Mr. Holmes, the snows were long and hard. On this singular occasion, the winds were particularly strong, and although we had a roaring fire in the grate, a bitter chill still hung about the sitting room. Mr. Holmes was smoking on his pipe, pondering, when he suddenly said, “What do you know of crime, Martha?”

Not sure what he meant by the question, I answered, “I know we need less of it, sir.”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “But do you believe we will ever be
rid
of it? As long as there is a criminal underworld, you can be certain that we will never have a shortage. But after it has been eliminated, do you believe we will have no more work to do?”

Some time passed before I could answer him. After much thought, I finally said, “I believe there are good people about the world, generally. But if you are worried for lack of work, Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that England shall always have a need for your assistance.”

He smiled at this, and then turned toward the door, for it had blown open from the gale outside. I arose to close it, but Mr. Holmes held up his hand and went himself. “Thank you for your vote of confidence,” he said as he walked, “but I—”

Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass, and my master fell to his knees.

“Mr. Holmes!” I shouted, rushing to steady him.

“Fetch Watson…,” he said in a strained voice, his hand covered in blood. His face became paler by the second, and I feared that he might faint. I tore a piece of my apron to make a compress and said, “We must get you somewhere safe.”

He took my wrist, and squeezing it tightly, said with all the strength he could manage, “Go, now.” I knew I had no time to waste, and that I must find Dr. Watson without delay. I nodded, and leaving him there ran out into the night.

The snow came down continuously, and I sensed that it was late, for the lamps were burning brightly and the shops were closing. I remembered that Mr. Holmes had sent Dr. Watson to the West End to check on a young man who had been caught by a stray bullet during one of their cases. Knowing that Mr. Holmes’s life lay in my hands, I hurriedly made my way down the dark, silent streets. I was coming upon Portman Square when I saw the shadow of a chase against the white surroundings. I hailed it, and found Dr. Watson inside.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes has been wounded. We must get to him quickly, or I fear he shall die!”

“At Baker Street?” Dr. Watson’s brows knitted as he told the driver to hurry on.

“Yes. We were speaking by the fire when the door blew open. He stood up to close it and was shot through the window. Ah, poor Mr. Holmes!”

I covered my face with my hands. Dr. Watson roused me from my thoughts and said, “It will be all right; I shall mend him.”

When at last we arrived at Baker Street, I opened the door at once, finding Mr. Holmes lying in his blood, grey and silent. Dr. Watson took up his arm.

“Are we too late?” I gasped.

“No,” Dr. Watson replied. “Thankfully he has merely fainted from loss of blood. Please fetch me some brandy, some clean water and fresh cloths.”

By the time I returned to the hall, the doctor had transferred Mr. Holmes to a sofa near the fire. “I hope you do not mind the sight of blood,” he said to me as he took out a long instrument from a large black bag. I shook my head and he said, “Good. Now please hold his shoulder, that I might have a closer inspection of the wound.”

I did so, and as he carefully worked around the skin, began to pull at the bullet. Within a minutes or so, I heard a small “pop” and the bullet was free and whole. “Fate is with us,” said Dr. Watson, and he smiled. With a sigh of relief, I began to wrap the wound, when Mr. Holmes opened his eyes.

“Watson,” he said faintly, “I was—”

“I know. Miss Beauregard has told me all. You should rest now, Holmes.”

“But I must find out—”

“Later, when you are well enough.”

“The man is—”

“You may be the detective, Holmes, but I am the doctor. Rest now, that’s an order.”

He looked at him incredulously, but it was not long before he fell asleep for lack of strength. Dr. Watson then told me to dress the wound every couple of hours, and to make sure that Mr. Holmes did not attempt, upon waking, to go about business in the usual way. He stressed rest most of all, which I knew Mr. Holmes would treat with contempt. I followed his directions to the best of my ability, and by late morning, Mr. Holmes was sitting up on the sofa, restless and deep in concentration.

Dr. Watson was reading the morning paper and I was making breakfast, when Mr. Holmes asked if he could have the bullet from his wound.

“Whatever for?” Dr. Watson asked in surprise.

“This person is obviously a good shot,” he said.

“Yes. It’s a pure miracle that it missed your heart and your left lung, for it hit just above those vital organs, and could have killed you before my arrival.”

Hearing this conversation from the kitchen, I shuddered at the thought and decided that the subject should take a new course. “What of the bullet, Mr. Holmes?”

He turned to me as if distracted, then sighed. “I had hoped that with the bullet, I would be able to find the gun it belonged to, and thereby its owner as well.” He rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

“Are you well, sir?”

“Yes, Martha, just weary. Could you please convince Dr. Watson that I need the bullet for further study?”

I looked at Dr. Watson, who ignored me as if he had not heard a word. At last he stood up and, grumbling to himself, gave Mr. Holmes a handkerchief. Mr. Holmes chuckled quietly and whispered to me, “Your very stare moves a man to action.” He smiled, and then immediately set to work. He carefully unwrapped the handkerchief and asked for his glass. He seemed to study minutely every inch of the bullet, and some time passed before he spoke again. He then quickly stood up, as if resolved, and headed for the door.

“Get back here, Holmes,” Dr. Watson said, not harshly but with definite authority.

“I am well, my good man. Thanks to your efforts, I am fit enough to go about.”

“Thank you for the compliments, but I am not convinced.”

“Watson, how am I to solve this case if—” Mr. Holmes grew pale, and began to rock back and forth. I caught him under the arm as he leaned into my shoulder. Dr. Watson smiled faintly, and Mr. Holmes let out an exclamation of despair, “Perhaps it would be better if I were dead.”

“Mr. Holmes!” I said rather angrily as I led him back to the sofa.

“Fear not, my good lady; nothing shall befall me, especially if Watson keeps such a close eye.” He frowned and his brows furrowed.

“Could I possibly be of service to you, sir?”

He shook his head, pondering. He then turned to Dr. Watson and said, with a somewhat bitter tone, “May I inspect the window, doctor?”

Dr. Watson looked at him over the paper, coughed, and raised it higher as if ignoring him. Mr. Holmes took this as acquiescence, and like a giddy schoolboy went quickly to the window. He examined it in his way and asked me to join him.

“Martha,” he asked nonchalantly, “would you care to tell me what you see from this hole in the window?” He smiled, and I was sure that he knew exactly what he wished me to tell him.

I knelt and began to describe the scene. “I see part of the front path, and the outline of the street, but it’s all covered in snow. I am not sure what you wish me to say, Mr. Holmes.”

“Look a little further,” he urged.

I sighed and looked again. “There are bare trees, and small dips where the hedges must be—”

“Exactly,” he said, his eyes shining in excitement. “Now, Miss Beauregard, would you be so kind as to go out to those snowy hedges and tell me what you find there?”

“Surely, sir. But they are so far—”

“Do you not wish to go? I could send Watson, though I believe he would be less able than you to observe what I am not well enough to venture forth for.”

“No, I will go. But I would be quite surprised indeed if anyone hiding there could reach this place.”

“Perhaps I am wrong, but I do not believe so. Will you go, Martha?”

I nodded and went out. The storm had ended, but an icy wind still whipped about the street. The snow was soft, still susceptible to my footprints in the grey winter sun. I walked steadily to the hedges, the most solitary soul in the world. The walk seemed so long that I wondered how someone could possibly have shot from such a hiding place into the window at Baker Street, when I came around to the first hedge and discovered something. Very faint from the fresh storm was the impression of a boot, no longer the full boot but only the shape of the toe. Nearby also was a golden bullet shell. I grabbed up the golden capsule and ran back to the house.

“Sir, sir!” I called out in excitement, “I did find something there.” I gave Mr. Holmes the capsule and said, “There was also the impression of a boot, almost hidden completely by the snow, but Nature has been kind.”