The Hudson Diaries (8 page)

Dr. Watson was as kind and congenial to me as ever, attempting to alleviate my sorrow with conversation. Alas, my mind was distracted, and poor Dr. Watson was left speaking mainly to himself. When his store of small subjects was finally depleted, he said, “My dear, I feared that I would get to this eventually, but…ah, Mr. Holmes suggested that—ah…that we begin looking into arrangements for the funeral.”

All feeling went from my body. I could not speak or move, even if I had wished to. Coming out of my reverie, I said, “He left no will… Rupert’s family is also small, quite small. In two days we could put him in the earth.”

With this concise explanation tears welled up again, and Dr. Watson offered me his third handkerchief; I could only sigh and wipe the tears away. At last I stood up and went immediately to the door. My hand was on the knob when Dr. Watson said, “But wait! Where are you going?”

“To market to buy flowers for the funeral.” When he asked if he could escort me, I told him not to worry, that I was well and would soon return. When he adamantly discouraged my going, I said that my wish was merely to be productive, nothing more. He at last grudgingly consented and I left. When I came back to the Baker Street door, Mr. Holmes had returned. A heated argument was taking place which abruptly ended upon my entrance.

“Mrs. Hudson, I have some news.” Mr. Holmes struggled to sound at ease; there was a look in his eye that detected suspicious behavior. “I do not know who it is, but I know who it is not.”

“I do not gather your meaning, sir.”

“Well, I know it is neither Henry Bertram nor his associates to date.”

“How did you come to this conclusion, sir?”

“I kept the bullet casings from when I received my own wound and attempted to match them to the ones found in your flowerbeds under the windowsill. They do not match at all.”

“Who then, Mr. Holmes?!” I cried in anguish. “We made only a modest living, and Rupert to my knowledge never hurt a soul in his life. Who would do this, except a man who would kill my husband knowing I would come to
you
for aid?”

For the first time in his life, Mr. Holmes was struck dumb. He then said, very quietly, “Your employment with me would not be enough of a motive to kill your husband, Martha.”

“Then it is lost,” I said, rising. “My husband as well as his case. Should you wish to attend the funeral, it shall be on the hills near my home in two days time. Until then, adieu, gentlemen.” As I closed the door, anger and despair rose within me, for I felt that no rest would come until the case was solved, with or without Sherlock Holmes.

The next two days passed quickly, and before long Rupert was on the hill to rest there forever. After the mourners had given their condolences and all services had been rendered, I stood alone near his graveside until Mr. Holmes approached. He stood in silence until I spoke. “What might I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Where will you go?” he asked.

“I do not know. My parents are dead, and now my husband also. I am alone in this bleak world, sir.”

I shook my head in despair. Silence followed, and I took a small dagger from my apron. In my anguish I had run to a vendor for the most lethal weapon my meager means could buy, and I now held it in my hand. “There is nothing left for me to do,” I said at last, “but to join them.” I lifted the knife and tilted my head back, but before the blade could touch my breast, Mr. Holmes had it out of my hands.

“Stop!” he shouted, “Do not throw your life away in such grief!”

“My only love is dead…what have I to live for?”

“The world needs you, Martha.”

“I have nothing left to give.”

Mr. Holmes looked down upon me sadly. “Is there nothing I might say to you to keep you from so rash an act?”

I shook my head and endeavored to grab the dagger. He raised his fist out of reach and said, “We will find your husband’s murderer—I promised you that before and do so again. Can you find it within yourself to trust
me
now, Mrs. Hudson, as I did you on that first day you came into my employment? Please let me be of service to you now, instead of this terrible alternative.”

Defeated at last by misery and exhaustion, my hand dropped and I covered my face. I began to sob heartily; Mr. Holmes embraced me, and in this small way shared in my grief. He and Dr. Watson escorted me again to Baker Street, where we started the case afresh.

“Martha, did you know anyone intimately before your husband?”

At first I shook my head, but then remembered a face from long ago, and remembered his expression at my wedding.

“There was one man, John Guthrie. But that was several years before I met Rupert.”

“What was he like?”

“We thought we were in love once. Generally he was very kind, but—”

I paused and shivered. Mr. Holmes’s brows knitted, and I knew he wished me to continue. I inhaled deeply and did so. “He had a very violent temper, and would often jump to false conclusions. His jealousy could last for weeks, even if his accusations had no foundation.”

Mr. Holmes sat in deep concentration. “Did he ever do violence against you?”

I sighed and felt suddenly anxious. “Twice. On the second pass, we parted. He came to my home trying to apologize, but I knew then, that what he wished for him and I could never be. My parents and I relocated to Charing Cross a few months later.”

Mr. Holmes stood up, wrote a note, and sent for a messenger boy. “Mrs. Hudson,” he asked, “if I invited Mr. Guthrie here, would you be able to see him one last time? I believe he has a confession to make.”

Within the hour John Guthrie, now much changed, walked through the door. His dark hair had grown long, his clothes disheveled and dirty. He swaggered and swayed as if drunken, though his keen black eyes focused long and well upon me. Mr. Holmes remained at ease, unaffected by John’s entrance. I stayed with Dr. Watson near the door.

“Mr. Guthrie,” said Mr. Holmes nonchalantly. “Please, do sit down.” John did so, staining the upholstery and the entire room with his presence.

“What do you want with me?” he said roughly.

“I only wish for you to answer a few questions for me. Do you know this woman?” Mr. Holmes pointed to me.

“Yes—we know each other well.”

Mr. Holmes went on as though nothing had occurred, though I could sense he was watching his every move. “Did you know she was recently married?”

“I heard rumors.” John was becoming nervous, for he was wiping his hands on his trousers. My own anger was rising.

“And did you know,” continued Mr. Holmes, “that her husband died just two days ago, from gunshot wounds to the back?”

Guthrie laughed at this, long and hard, which left Dr. Watson and myself aghast. Mr. Holmes’s eyes became cold, his mouth thin and tight. “He is dead, then?” John said, still chuckling. “That suits him. He doesn’t deserve her.”

My rage was uncontrollable. I strode up to John and struck him hard in the face. “Did you kill my husband, you worthless devil?”

He only grinned, and then his long arms were about my waist. “I didn’t…but I’m glad
someone
had the courage to do it.”

“Unhand me, villain!” I screamed and struck him once more before Mr. Holmes had untangled me from his vice-like grip and grabbed him by the collar. “I hate you, John Guthrie—you are nothing but wickedness to me!”

“Do not touch her again,” Mr. Holmes said dangerously, shaking him like a limp doll. In his eyes was an anger I had never before seen, nor have I seen it since. “Why did you shed innocent blood?”

“Get your hands off me!” John shouted, struggling beneath Mr. Holmes’s tight grip. Mr. Holmes pushed him against the wall, gave him a most burning stare, and released him. Guthrie dusted himself off and spoke, shaken. “I didn’t touch the man… I swear it!” He put up his hands as Mr. Holmes gave him a deep, interrogating look. A long silence prevailed; John crossed the room and headed for the door.

“If I find that you are the man who committed this murder,” whispered Mr. Holmes, “more than the law will find you.”

The door opened and closed, and there was quiet once more. “What are we going to do?” asked Dr. Watson tentatively.

“I’m not sure…but we are not finished yet. Are you sure there is no one else?”

I nodded, sinking into a chair nearby. Mr. Holmes approached me. “Do not fear; there is still hope left.” Though he meant to hide his own feelings, I could see that he was as worried as I.

Some weeks passed before anything of promise appeared; I had lost all hope of finding solace. Many friends came to my home more than once, offering their services, but though they meant well I refused them. Though I had not anywhere to go, I wished to remove myself from such a place of personal tragedy. One day, as I was packing my belongings, a light knock met my ears. I opened the door and William Hughes stood before me on the porch.

“William,” I said, but he held up his hand. Surprised, I waited.

“I came to offer myself to you.”

“Thank you; you are very kind, but—”

He held up his hand once more. “I offer myself completely, entirely to you. Will you take me, Martha?”

“I do not know what you mean, sir.” We had grown up together as childhood acquaintances, even friends, but I had never felt more than friendship for the man standing before me. William was a man of means and reasonable success, but my mind as well as my heart were against any greater connection. We grew apart as we grew older, and I had never really missed his companionship.

“I am a rich man; I could give you everything you have ever been denied.”

“No. I could never… I will never see you in that way. You are a good friend, but no more. Good day, sir.”

I heard his footstep on the pavement some time afterward, and once I knew he was gone, made my way to Baker Street to tell Mr. Holmes of this strange encounter. Once he had heard the tale, Mr. Holmes replied, “The next time your suitor comes to call, receive his advances and be sure to leave your pantry door unlocked.”

“What? This is harboring on the ridiculous…” I answered hotly. Dr. Watson glanced at me nervously, sure of a row.

“You would have me receive a man who makes marriage proposals only weeks after a man’s death?” I felt tears welling in my eyes.

“Yes, I would,” said Mr. Holmes, somewhat nonchalantly.

“Then you forget that the victim was my husband.” I rose and walked to the door. “Adieu, gentlemen.” I curtsied and left. As I shut the door, I felt some meager hope die within me, and found myself utterly alone.

A week passed before I received a letter from William, saying that he would come again at eleven o’clock the next day hoping that I had changed my mind. After reading the letter, I sent a wire to Mr. Holmes relaying to him the letter’s contents, unsure of how he would receive it after I had argued with him so hotly the week before.

At the appointed hour the next morning, I heard the knock at my door. William’s pale face appeared again before me.

“Martha…” he began, but I cut him short.

“Mr. Hughes, your dreams are nothing more than mere fancy. My husband was the love of my life. Though he is dead, I could never love another. Please do not come again.”

As I made to close the door, he swung it lightly away. Always supposing him to be a weak man, this surprised me and I stepped back.

“Do not deny me so quickly,” William answered hurriedly.

“Sir, I must ask you to leave.”

“You are a captivating woman,” he said hungrily. He snatched my wrist and kissed my hand; though I tried to pull away, William held tight.

“William, leave this house at once!” I could feel my face flush with anger.

As we inched toward the kitchen table, I saw a stray knife there. Reaching my fingers toward it, the knife slipped and fell, clattering, to the floor. William saw my attempt and laughed aloud. He continued to speak in soft, dangerous tones. “I have loved you for a long time, Martha. Why you chose Rupert over me I will never know. But I killed a man and would gladly do it again for a wife like you.”

“You’re mad!” I whispered angrily.

“Perhaps. But if I am mad, it is mad for love.
Your
love, Martha.”

He took my face in his hands so that I could not move. Though I wrestled with all my might, it was useless. His lips were leaning closer to mine…

“Stop!” I heard a familiar voice shout. “You are under arrest for the murder of Rupert Hudson, and for the harassment of his widow.”

As this was being said, William let go and bolted for the door. A dash of brown flew past and Mr. Holmes was grappling with him on the ground. Dr. Watson approached, and before long they had him subdued and in handcuffs.

I stood there, stunned. “But, how did you know?” I asked.

“It was quite simple, really,” Mr. Holmes replied, “Once you told us the story of his proposal, your illustrious Mr. Hughes had practically given himself away.”

Overcome with emotion, I burst into tears. Mr. Holmes stood amazed, even somewhat embarrassed. “Are you well, Martha?”

I nodded, unable to speak. Then, in a moment of rashness I ran to him and embraced him. “Thank you,” was all I could whisper.

At first he was speechless, and then when I let go, he took me by the shoulders as of old and said, “Now, Mrs. Hudson, we must find you a new place of residence and employment. Where do you wish to begin?”

“Mr. Holmes,” I said, slightly taken aback, “you have done me a service for which I can never repay you. I thought that if I stayed on with you, in some way I might be able to aid you in preventing other tragedies such as mine.”

“I am not a rich man.”

“Wealth means nothing to me. I would gladly serve you that you might serve the greater England.”

Mr. Holmes thought for a moment, and then said, “You may do so, then, under one condition. Think of me not as a debtor, but as a friend.”

I nodded, and under this agreement I was reinstated under Mr. Holmes, and have been so ever since.