Table of Contents

Copyright

The Hudson Diaries: The Life and Times of a Baker Street Resident

The Interview

The Stolen Letters

An Intimate Case

The Poison Cup

A Death in Spring

The Diamond Thief

Wedding Bells and Warnings

Two Fatal Wounds

The Hudson Diaries: The Life and Times of a Baker Street Resident

By Kara Barney

Copyright 2012 by Kara Barney

Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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The Hudson Diaries: The Life and Times of a Baker Street Resident

Kara Barney

The Interview

I remember the first day I met Sherlock Holmes; Dr. Watson was indisposed at the time. Before I became the prosperous landlady of Baker Street—that was only after a narrative entitled “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches” by Dr. Watson—I had been searching long and hard for work, and happened upon an advertisement in the paper, which read:

“Looking for a housekeeper of the highest standards; honest, hard-working, and true to his or her word. Does not mind solitude, and possesses a considerable amount of self-motivation, as the employer travels often.”

There was no name, only an address. Since these seemed to be the only qualifications, I sent a wire fixing an appointment and set off for Baker Street. Not knowing who or what I would find there, I came to the door and after taking a deep breath, knocked twice. A tall, thin man answered, his deep brown eyes scrutinizing my every move. Trying not to give in to intimidation, I curtsied and said, “Sir, I came as an answer to the advertisement—”

“Yes, yes…” he said, with a wave of his hand.

He swung the door wide open and without another word sat in a large wing-backed chair. After a moment, I realized that he would not direct me to a chair for myself, and so stepped in and sat immediately across from him in the nearest chair provided.

“What is your name?” he asked. I could see clearly that he was taking notes.

“Beauregard,” I said confidently, “Martha Beauregard.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

I began to tell my interviewer the general qualifications that I had told most employers. He then asked me about my family and upbringing. I answered, “My mother and I live in Charing Cross, and she is a seamstress. I have no siblings. My father…”

It was difficult for me to speak about my father; he had died from tuberculosis some months earlier, and I missed him terribly.

“Your father died?”

I hung my head, trying to answer but finding that I could not.

After a significant pause, he said, “You are of the working class, but you are quite literary and enjoy gardening. You know your way in the world, but thankfully you are naïve of the world of crime that surrounds you. Am I correct?”

I nodded, amazed at how he knew of these other private matters. “Sir, how—”

“It is a gift of mine to be very observant. Now, young lady, will you excel where others might have failed?”

I was surprised that my interviewer had called me young, when he himself was not much older than I. He could be no more than in his early thirties, his face chiseled, with deep lines around the jaw. After a slight pause, I said something very rash indeed.

“You will need to trust me, sir.”

His eyebrows shot up and he smiled enigmatically, I believe somewhat astonished. “Can I trust you, Miss Beauregard? I have worked on some of the most dangerous and twisted intrigue in all of England, and I hold secrets which some would kill to possess. Not once have I found someone willing or able to enter my line of work who can also remain true. What makes you any different?”

I could sense that he was agitated, even slightly angry. For a moment I was struck dumb, and then answered, “I will do my best, sir…”

“What if your best is not enough?” he said condescendingly, “Good day, Miss Beauregard.”

I stood up, curtsied, and left immediately thereafter, not wishing to anger him further. On his porch steps I inhaled deeply and shook my head, confused at such conduct. As I left the porch, I thought I heard a cough nearby. Expecting to see someone there, I turned my head but saw no one. Disconcerted, I looked about, but still there was no one save myself nearby. I stepped off the porch, telling myself that my thoughts were strictly imaginary, but I had the strongest inclination to turn back and tell the man. I attempted to ignore it, for I did not wish to anger him further. Unable to do so for much longer, however, I revived my courage and knocked again at the Baker Street door. He again answered, moody and ponderous.

“What is it, Miss Beauregard?”

“Sir, I believe you and I were watched during our conference.”

“Watched?” his brows knitted, “By whom? Did you see anyone?”

“I do not know… No, I saw no one. But as I turned away from your porch, I heard rustling and…”

“Yes? Speak up.” he said shortly.

“A cough, sir.”

He frowned slightly. “What?”

“A cough. I heard a cough in the foliage yonder.”

His eyes bulged, and I thought I saw the hint of a smile on his lips. “Thank you, Miss Beauregard,” he replied, “Good day.”

Stunned somewhat by this reaction and his conduct toward me, I went on my way home to Charing Cross. Once there I began my domestic duties, and while my mother wished to know my progress toward employment, she did not press me when I told her I wished to speak of other things. It was several days before I saw the man again. In that interim I searched for other employment, sure that he would not call upon me. What would be my surprise, then, when one fog-ridden night, my mother and I were sewing by the fire when we heard a light but powerful knock at the door. Standing on the step, he asked if I was at home. Seeing that I was, he came in slowly, with a rather nervous countenance. My mother shut the door and a long silence followed. I finally asked the interviewer what could bring him to my home, and at last he spoke.

“May I speak with you alone, Miss Beauregard?”

My mother immediately left the room with a watchful, hesitant look on her face, probably believing this man to be a suitor.

“Please, do sit down.” I said, not having the slightest idea what might be on his mind.

He did so, and after another heavy silence, proceeded to tell me his thoughts. He said, “Firstly, I believe apology is in order. For my conduct several days past, I can only say that what I said to you is true. Not many others have been able to understand my particular needs or vigilance—I can only think of one person at present. However, the only way in which I can get a housekeeper, and hopefully an aid in those cases in which I might make use of you, is to try you out. What do you make of that, Miss Beauregard?”

“I accept your apology, sir, if that is what you mean by it.”

“It is. Secondly,” he continued, “I wish to ask you a question. What was it that drove you back to my door after I had treated you so harshly?”

After a time, and finally with a shrug of my shoulders, I said, “Call it intuition, sir.”

“If intuition is what you call it, then your intuition is one of the highest quality. Indeed, there was someone near my home during our conference together.”

In response to my look of shock, he grinned and went on. “The man you heard was my trusted assistant and confidante, Dr. John Watson. After some friendly coercion, he agreed to be part of an experiment I invented to test those who came to Baker Street seeking employment. They first, unfortunately, would be berated and rebuked by me, then Watson would create some sort of disturbance. You were the only person to return and warn me of possible danger. For that I must thank you, and tell you that I wish for you to enter my employment. Does that suit you, young lady?”

Taken aback by his narrative as well as his request, it took some time for me to accept. Once I had done so, however, Mr. Holmes introduced himself to me officially, shook my hand, and told me that I would start on the morrow. Thus began my employment with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and since then the house on Baker Street and its owner have been under my care.

The Stolen Letters

Some months into my employment with Mr. Holmes, though I had been warned of the certain dangers which might befall Baker Street, I attempted to keep the house as routine and ordinary as possible, drawing no attention to the fact that he was a private detective. I had grown accustomed to his want for quiet, though from time to time we would spend an evening by the fire discussing London and its troubles. I was also aware of Mr. Holmes coming and going often, and occasionally the serenade of his violin. On this particular morning, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had left early and without breakfast, as is their custom in times of difficulty. I was going about the upper rooms dusting, when I heard the front door open and close. Believing it to be my master, I made my way down the staircase. I called out his name, but there was no answer. Assuming he had not heard me, I called out again on the stairs. “Mr. Holmes?” I turned a corner near his study, for I had heard sounds there, and pushed open the door; no one appeared. I followed the sound into the front sitting room, but came too late before I heard the front door open and close again.

I went to the window, disconcerted. Instead of Mr. Holmes, there stood a man of unusual height, with a pale, sickly complexion, a wicked grin spread across his face. I came out to the porch as he turned away, halted by a pistol pointed directly at my heart.

“If you attempt to pursue me, I will kill you,” he whispered menacingly, his malicious stare boring into my very soul. I blinked, and in that moment he disappeared.

I raced back into the house and sent a messenger for Mr. Holmes at once. Shaken, I awaited my master’s return with a deep sense of dread. Within the hour Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were back at Baker Street, anticipating my explanations.

“Are you well, Martha?” asked Mr. Holmes, looking at me closely.

“Yes, I am unharmed…but I fear that something has been stolen from the house.”

“Watson, please begin a thorough search of the house—I will join you presently,” my master directed, and then asked me to explain.

When I had done so, Mr. Holmes’s brows furrowed. Deep in thought, he said, “There are few things in this house that would be of consequence, but I can think of some. Would you be able to describe the intruder to me should it come to that?”

I nodded, thinking hard. Then an idea struck me. “Rupert Hudson… He is an artist. Call upon him, and perhaps from my description he can give you your man.”

Mr. Holmes nodded and once a messenger was sent to fetch Rupert, we all three began to search the lower rooms. After an hour of exhaustive investigation, Mr. Holmes sighed, saying, “I hope that your artist can work well and quickly. Some letters have been stolen which are quite precious to me.” My heart beat nervously, and I prayed that we were not too late.

“But how did he get in?” I asked.

“I’m not sure…but thieves do have their ways.” He bent down near the door, his nose nearly touching the floor.

“Is there something there, sir?”

“How very odd.” Mr. Holmes held up his hand, squinting in the lamplight. Resting in his fingers was a thin piece of steel.

“There is nothing so strange about that, Mr. Holmes,” I said, smiling. “It probably came from a loose nail hanging in the wall. See? That picture has fallen again.” I crossed the room and picked up one of the few landscape paintings we had in the old house; being near the door, it had a tendency to fall when the door opened on a blustery day.

“Perhaps,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders, slipping the piece into his pocket.

At last Rupert arrived, and upon seeing me, kissed me on the cheek and said, “Are you all right? Who did this to you? If anyone dares to threaten you, I’ll—”

I put my finger to his lips and smiled, but then felt the gravity of the situation once more. “That is why you are here, Rupert. I hope that through my description you might draw the man who intruded upon this house today, and thereby save Mr. Holmes from potentially scandalous exposure.”

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.”

A look of anxiety came over his face, and I feared that I had done wrong. “Was there nothing else there?” he asked, and I hung my head.

“Well, sir, as soon as I saw the boot and the shell, I ran back. I did not see anything else plainly. Forgive me—I was so surprised at your correct conjectures that I did not observe much else.”

“No, you did well, quite well,” he said quietly and sighed. A pregnant silence followed, and my own embarrassment and anxiety grew with it.

At last Mr. Holmes spoke again. “The man is a sharpshooter, a soldier. The gun is a rifle, and a long one at that.” Relief came over my person as he made these observations, for I had supposed that I had lost the case for my employer.

“But with the storm,” observed Dr. Watson, “it would be quite difficult indeed to see your target.”

“You are true as ever, Watson,” Mr. Holmes said, “That is exactly why he missed. He was aiming straight for the heart.”

A chill ran down my spine as he came to this conclusion. “Chandler?” I asked, directing my gaze to Mr. Holmes’s face. His expression was clouded, and not only by the tobacco smoke that covered the room.

“No, I do not believe it was him.”

“Who else could it be?” I went on, confused by my master’s reluctance. “He is the only man I can think of who would do such a thing, with or without a motive.”

“Chandler always has a motive,” Mr. Holmes said with some annoyance, “Besides, a move like this is unusual for him; he would slander or threaten before he would kill outright. And I can never imagine him using a gun like this in his entire dastardly career.”

“Might it be an associate?” Dr. Watson suggested.

“That is a definite possibility,” Mr. Holmes replied with a frustrated sigh, “but the only way to know for sure is to see the impression in the snow outside and make further inquires there.” He shot a heated glance at Dr. Watson, who held up his hands.

“Would you have preferred that I allow you to die when I could save you?”

“No.” He smiled weakly, and his face softened. “I only wish that my health would permit an investigation. I fear it may soon be too late to obtain the culprit.”

“You have Miss Beauregard and myself at your disposal,” Dr. Watson insisted. “Really, Holmes, you should have more faith in us.”

“Come now, Watson,” Mr. Holmes cried. “You know that I would use you if there were no possible danger to you or Martha. I fear there are games afoot that might catch you in the crossfire.”

“Do not fear, sir,” I said, hoping to sound more confident than I felt. “Fate thus far has been kind; let us hope for better things to come. We also need to get you to a safer spot, lest this man should return and win his objective.”

“I am all right here,” Mr. Holmes said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I do not think he shall come again so soon. After observing my fall yesterday, he most likely believes you are preparing for a funeral.”

I nodded and Dr. Watson followed me out the door. Arriving at the hedges, we discovered that the impression, though faded, had hardened. Pondering for a time, Dr. Watson placed his own foot inside the mold. The frozen impression was slightly longer, of which the doctor told me to take note, and then said, “Search for any queer signs or unnatural objects about.”

After some time searching in the cold, I saw some discoloration on the leaves of the hedge. “Will this be of service to us?”

I held up the leaves. Dr. Watson hesitated, and for a time did not speak. In deep concentration, he said at last, “Everything, even the smallest detail, is important somehow. Though I do not see a connection at present, I am sure our good friend will see one.” He then held up a bit of ragged cloth, and urged that we go back to the house before we catch our own deaths. It was in this somber mood that we entered the house, with Mr. Holmes anxiously awaiting our return.

“What have you brought me, old chap?” he asked. When he saw our faces, his own twitched.

“We believe we have found some fresh evidence, but can make nothing of it,” Dr. Watson said as he handed him the cloth and leaves. Mr. Holmes took up his glass and became intensely engrossed in his work. After a time, Mr. Holmes observed, “I am sure of one fact… It is not Chandler.”

“But sir,” I asked, frustrated, “How do you know—”

“By simple deduction, Miss Beauregard,” said Mr. Holmes dismissively. “If Watson’s measurements are correct, that would make Chandler much too short. Now, what’s this?”

He was holding the bit of cloth as if it were a precious jewel. Pulling away a few fibers, he scrutinized them carefully; a slight frown crept over his lips. As he drew the cloth under the microscope the frown grew deeper, and as he withdrew his eye it seemed as if a great weight suddenly appeared in an instant upon his shoulders.

“What is the matter, sir?”

“I am sure it is nothing of consequence,” he replied lightly, though I knew better than to believe him, for he did not leave his chair for an hour and a half thereafter.

A couple of days passed, and to my relief Mr. Holmes was making a rapid recovery. One morning after breakfast, he asked me if I would like to do some shopping with him.

“Surely. What is it you’re looking for, Mr. Holmes?”

“A coat. I find myself fancying a new one this year.”

“Very well. Shall I fetch Dr. Watson as well?”

“No. I do not believe we shall need him, and as he has told me his war comrades are in town, I let him take the day off from our company.”

When we had arrived at the nearest shop, Mr. Holmes went toward the back of the shop, where the summer jackets had been stowed for winter. He felt each one delicately on the shoulder.

After nearly twenty minutes of this odd behavior, I told him, “Mr. Holmes, these jackets are nowhere near long enough or thick enough to keep you warm.”

“Right…quite right.” he said absent-mindedly. He then let me lead the way to the proper winter coats.

At each shop we entered, he would repeat this eccentric study, and each time I reminded him what we were actually searching for. Finally, when all resources nearby were exhausted, we wandered home to Baker Street empty-handed. Mr. Holmes pondered the rest of the day, tobacco smoke filling the sitting room.

The next day, when Dr. Watson returned, I apprised him of the situation. “Sir,” I said carefully, “Mr. Holmes is acting a bit…odd of late.”

“And this surprises you?” Dr. Watson smiled; when my look of consternation met it, he coughed and attempted to be serious again.

“Yesterday he asked me to shop with him for a winter coat, but all he seemed interested in were the summer jackets.”

Dr. Watson’s brows knitted. “I’ll talk to him about it tonight before I leave for the war reunion.”

That night, as Dr. Watson was leaving to meet with his comrades, Mr. Holmes bid him farewell, then suddenly said, “What are you wearing?”

“Holmes,” Dr. Watson replied, “you know perfectly well that I was going to the war reunion tonight.”

“This is your uniform?” he replied with controlled nonchalance.

“Yes. May I leave now?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Holmes shook Dr. Watson’s hand.

“I’m not leaving forever, Holmes,” answered Dr. Watson, disconcerted.

“Don’t be silly. If you dawdle any longer you’ll be late.”

With that, Dr. Watson went out the door. Mr. Holmes spent the rest of the night in his study. The next morning, Mr. Holmes’s eyes were bright. He rubbed his hands together and paced impatiently, I suspect waiting for Dr. Watson to awaken. Once the three of us were assembled, Mr. Holmes proceeded to tell us his theory.

“The material you brought me some time ago has proved to be most elusive but, thanks to Dr. Watson wearing his uniform last night, I believe I have found the answer. It belongs to the sleeve of a hunting jacket issued by her majesty’s army, I presume for a campaign in Afghanistan or India. If we were to find the jacket, I am sure we would also find an army stitch much like Watson uses somewhere near the shoulder.”

“So that’s why you went rifling through all those jackets.” I nearly laughed aloud.

“Precisely,” he said feverishly. “But there is still more. Even as I rubbed the cloth to make certain I was correct, under the microscope the fibers were clearly not the same as the frayed cloth. When you brought the cloth to me, there was also another clue waiting for us. It was hair.”

“Hair?” Dr. Watson and I turned to each other, confused.

“I confess I should have told you sooner. You see, under a microscope, the thread had a specific weave, but hair has an entirely different molecular structure, and so they did not match when I looked. Now that we have made this discovery, it should narrow the field considerably.”

“But how?” Dr. Watson asked.

“The hair is red,” replied Mr. Holmes. “In the light you can see the hues. Red is not all that common among us, except among the Irish. Let us hope he is not one of them. Watson, do we happen to have the army volumes still in the library? Please retrieve them.”

“But what would those do for us, sir?” I asked, confused.

“They give not only the names, but also all the major work of the soldiers in the service from the last decade to the present day.”

When the volumes had been retrieved, we each took one in turn and took up the daunting task of reading each record thoroughly. Mr. Holmes left the room from time to time, taking notes or evidence with him. After nearly two hours of exhaustive study, Mr. Holmes cried out in exultation. “Aha, I believe I have found our man at last! Watson, please call on Inspector Lestrade for me. And keep your revolver ready.” As Dr. Watson left the sitting room, Mr. Holmes wrote a note and sent for a courier. After handing off the message, I asked Mr. Holmes what he knew, and he answered, “Wait but a little longer, Miss Beauregard, and I believe we shall have it out as I conjecture.”

“But to have a revolver ready? What can you possibly…” At last I understood his plan. “You’re not planning on having the man come here, are you sir?” He grinned, and I was suddenly filled with worry. “He will surely kill you where you stand!”

“Do not fear; I don’t believe he shall be so plucky as to try anything—and if he does, we shall be ready for him.”

Within the hour Inspector Lestrade had arrived, and by Mr. Holmes’s planning was hidden in the next room. Dr. Watson and I were also nearby to listen and to wait for an opportune time to intervene should the need arise. Within a few minutes, the man himself was upon the porch. Mr. Holmes went to receive him, and when the introductions were given, the man stepped into the room. He was tall and pale, with fiery hair and deep, brooding eyes. He said nothing, only stared suspiciously. Mr. Holmes met with the silence by inviting the visitor to a game of whist. My master also asked for tea, and while I went to prepare it, the distinct feeling of ill boding lingered. Dr. Watson sat with me in the kitchen, and while we said nothing, we both felt the tension coming to a head.

The conversation was light but careful; the bids were safe and ineffectual. Eventually, however, our visitor became more heated as the bids rose, while Mr. Holmes remained calm. Dr. Watson silently left the kitchen, watching intently. Flushed with anger, our visitor stood up suddenly and pointed a revolver at Mr. Holmes. He shouted, “You should have been dead the first time I shot you, but now you cannot escape!” Dr. Watson ran into the sitting room and a shot was fired. I heard a cry of pain and nearly fainted. Hearing scuffling, I ran into the sitting room. Fortunately, when I arrived upon the scene, Inspector Lestrade had the man subdued and in handcuffs. I uttered a prayer of thanks as I discovered Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were unharmed. Our guest was taken away bleeding, and as we took in the triumph of the moment, I asked Mr. Holmes how he had known about the man.

“His name is Henry Bertram, obliged to leave the army over the inability to pay his debts. The rifle is a Lee-Metford, and he is also a writer.”

“A Lee-Metford?” asked Dr. Watson, confused. “But a Metford rifle is only issued to soldiers in the army. A soldier can keep the uniform, but never the gun.”

“Indeed… He most likely used a criminal contact to get it for him, and some careless citizen is now out of work.”

“But sir, how would you come to such separate conclusions?” I inquired.

“The war records from our library. The Lee-Metford also uses cordite, a substance that leaves little residue, but when burned has a bright yellow flame.”

“But what would be the motive?”

“As you yourself have seen, he has an inherently violent nature and, I conjecture, also an inherited strain to crime reinforced by the company he currently keeps. I also have many enemies; I have no doubt that they would pay handsomely to rid the world of me. When his first attempt failed, however, Bertram’s reward would most likely be revoked—knowing this, he had all the more reason to return to Baker Street and finish the job. ”

“And the cards?” Dr. Watson asked.

“An educated guess; I suspected that if he could not pay his debts, he might be somewhat of a gambler.”

“But what could you possibly do to provoke him in such a way?” I inquired nervously. “Surely you did not say anything within my hearing that put him in such anger.”

“I cheated,” said Mr. Holmes lightly.

“What? Cheating at a whist game and putting your life at the mercy of a murderer…” I shook my head in disgust. “Mr. Holmes, I would have thought you knew better.”

“There was nothing better I could have done, Martha,” he said easily, “Bertram is a cheat himself, but could not foresee someone playing him at his own game.”

“So, you brought him here to provoke him to attempt murder again, with Lestrade here to see to the official trouble of putting him behind bars,” Dr. Watson said.

“Exactly,” Mr. Holmes replied, smiling in his way, as if he had known all along. “By the way, Watson, I am glad you’re a very good shot with a revolver.”

Dr. Watson smiled, and there was a peaceful silence. One more question remained unanswered, and I decided to venture with it. “Do you believe this is the end of him, Mr. Holmes?”

He thought for a long moment, and then said, “It is not likely, but still possible that he could outwit the court. If Bertram escapes, he will certainly come, and next time with a stronger resolve.”

Although this worried me, after a while my masters were again engrossed in other, and what they claimed to be more important cases. I continued to have Baker Street in my care, and so we went about our lives in the natural manner. I am glad to say that that for some time the residents of Baker Street were left in relative peace, and I am also most grateful that we were able to solve this most intimate case.

The Poison Cup

A fortnight before the Christmas holiday, the sun shone brightly as I made a morning meal for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, who would be returning shortly from a late-night case. While so doing, I heard a knock on the front parlor door, and expecting it to be my employers, hastened to answer it. Finding no one there, I looked about me and saw a lone bottle on the porch with a note on it written thus:

“Best wishes,

and Happy Christmas!”

No sooner had I brought the bottle inside than Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson appeared in the doorway.

“Hello, Martha,” said Mr. Holmes. “Had an eventful morning, did we?” He nodded toward the bottle and smiled.

“No, sir. I came to answer the door and it was there on the porch.”

Dr. Watson read the note. “A trifle early for that, don’t you think?”

Mr. Holmes spoke quickly. “Well, my friends, shall we open it and indulge in a man’s generosity? We could all use a good dram, you know.”

Knowing his keen advances to drink from time to time, particularly in times of mental strain before a case was entirely solved, I uncorked the bottle. Taking it from me, Mr. Holmes poured himself a glass and handed Dr. Watson and myself two others. We raised our glasses, and I took the first swallows.

“You cannot drink this,” I said as the men tipped their glasses.

“What is the matter?”

“Something is not right. A strange odour…”

“I do not detect anything abnormal.” Mr. Holmes shrugged and put the glass to his lips.

“No, Mr. Holmes!” I raised my hand to stop him.

“She’s right, Holmes,” Dr. Watson said tentatively. “What if the drink had a much more lethal substance in it?”

“Very well,” Mr. Holmes replied, putting the glass down.

Some minutes later, as I was washing dishes, I felt suddenly nauseous. Before I could fall into a chair, I stumbled to the floor, overcome with fear. I called out as my throat constricted and my breath was cut short. My vision blurred, and I felt my blood congealing as the world went dark about me.

Only seconds must have passed before I was awake again, retching and twitching like a wounded animal. I was continually given a terrible antidote to swallow, whereby more retching would ensue. When at last I thought I had not strength enough even to move, Dr. Watson said gently, “It is nearly over now; only a little more is left, and then you may rest, Martha.”

I remember little of the days in that interval between the initial poisoning and my eventual recovery. I was chiefly attended to by Dr. Watson, while Mr. Holmes was consistently absent from Baker Street, though I have since conjectured that he was engaged in discovering the whereabouts of the culprit. I have also been told that I acquired a fever after the poisoning, this being the only explanation for my behavior to be hitherto related.

With his permission, I have included Dr. Watson’s notes of the experience here:

While I attended to Martha, Holmes conducted a series of experiments. He was constantly in his laboratory; one day, I caught him mixing feverishly when suddenly he drank the mixture in one gulp.

“Holmes!” I shouted out and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?!”

He had turned extremely pale, but said to me, “Checking the strength of the poison.”

“What can you mean, Holmes?” I replied angrily.

“With this experiment I will have discovered which poison was in that bottle.”

“You’ll kill yourself!”

“No I won’t, Watson,” he smiled weakly, “The amounts are not nearly enough to kill me. I have some immunity from my previous studies as a chemist.”

“And what do you plan to do with this experiment?” Frustrated, I prepared to hear him out, for he had often included me in sounding out his theories without sharing his conclusions.

“Help Martha.”

Struck by this straightforward answer, I said, “If you die, your aid will have been in vain.”

“I don’t believe I will.” He then proceeded to tell me that for the last several days he had been taking drinks laced with minimal amounts of thallium, mercury, lead and other lethal substances when taken in larger doses. Cyanide and arsenic were out of the question—if it had been either of these, Martha would have been dead within hours or even minutes of ingesting them.

While Holmes attempted to remain unaffected by this experiment, I could see that it had taken its toll. With the promise of no more experimentation from him, I went to see to Martha once more.

* * *

For myself, I heard several voices at one time or another, though indistinct, and it felt to me as though they were at some great distance. Though I called for them, they would not come nearer. The terrors generally reserved for night haunted me in my waking hours, and even in those few hours of peace there was little rest.

In one of my rare lucid moments during this period, I realized Dr. Watson was near my bedside. I took his hand urgently in mine.

“Death is coming for me, sir.”

“Come now, my dear girl—do not give up yet. You shall be well again soon,” he answered earnestly, his brow furrowing.

I shook my head. “If I should die,” I said weakly, “please take care of Mr. Holmes. He needs you.”

He nodded, and having conveyed these thoughts, I was again tormented by the horrors which accompanied this illness.

Though Dr. Watson treated me most carefully and I am sure there were many a sleepless night between himself and Mr. Holmes, my recovery was a slow one. From his notes, Dr. Watson recalls:

As I came down the stairs to sit by the fire in the sitting room, Holmes was already there, pondering. I realized that this was to be another late-night vigil between him and I to discover the culprit. For two weeks we had had many of these similar nights until the coals burned low, but they all ended in erroneous conclusions or no conclusions at all.

“How is she?” he asked quietly.

I sighed. “Worse.” I could never hide the truth from Holmes, for even if I had attempted to do so, he would quickly have learned the truth all the same.

He put his long fingers together, head bowed. The expression on his face reminded me of the Greek god Atlas bearing the weight of the world.

“Fingerprints?” I inquired, trying to put his great mind to work.

“No,” he replied, his forehead creasing. “It would take time that we do not have to process, analyze and confirm a fingerprint. Besides, we know that Martha touched the bottle. That would only make the search more difficult.”

For a time there was no sound save the crackling of the fire in the grate. Then I had an idea.

“What about the note?” I asked.

“I already have—” he said, then stopped. He turned to me slowly; then, as if an idea was forming in his mind, became suddenly excited. “Watson, sometimes you do have strokes of genius within you! Why didn’t I see it before?”

Note in hand, he began pacing, tapping his pipe against his jaw. Examining it closely, Holmes held it up to the light and told me to join him. “See how the words slant slightly more to the right and some of the words are smudged where a new line begins? This man is left-handed.”

Next he scrutinized the letters minutely under the microscope, licked his finger and deliberately attempted to smear the ink.

“Holmes,” I said, but too late. “That’s substantial evidence!”

“Yes, but it may also lead us to our assassin. He probably mixed the poison and wrote the note at the same time. That is the most practical course. He might have even made his own ink.”

Working anxiously now, he rubbed at the ink vigorously, but nothing happened. Staring hard at the unharmed note, he sniffed it, then quickly licked the ink and coughed.

“Holmes!” I shouted out, prepared to run for my medical kit.

“Turpentine,” he gasped, still coughing. “This ink is made with turpentine.”

“But where would someone ever find enough turpentine to use it in ink?”

“I’ve heard that painters use it when they paint houses,” Holmes suggested. “But painters do not generally have the disposition to be murderers.”

“Or in medical practice,” I whispered. We stared at each other for a long moment. “We would use it to help cure rheumatism and bronchitis.”

* * *

When at last the fever abated and I was able to remain awake for several hours at a time, Mr. Holmes came in to see me. We sat in silence for a while until I finally asked if there was anything I could do for him.

“Under no circumstances are you ever allowed to eat or drink anything that passes this doorstep excepting what Watson or myself shall give you or what you make yourself,” he said angrily. “Is that understood?”

Taken aback by this speech, I was fortunately fortified by an anger of my own. “I could not very well let you die by a weakness for drink, Mr. Holmes. You know better than I that you have enemies—people who would kill you to save themselves.”

“I know it,” he said sadly. “I should have been more vigilant in my observance.” He looked at me steadily, a deep sorrow in his eyes, and hung his head.

It took some time for me to collect my thoughts, for I was still weak from the ordeal, and I did not know how to relieve him. “It was my first thought to keep you from danger. I did not want…” I could not finish, but I believe he divined its meaning from the silence.

“How did you know that the drink was poisoned?”

“My father and I made wine in our cellars at home,” I answered. “I knew not that it was poisoned, only that something was not right.”

“It was enough to save a life,” Mr. Holmes smiled slightly and then sighed, resting his head in his hands.

Wishing to console him, I whispered, “If you are worried for me, Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that I am out of danger now. Dr. Watson did well in the application of his expertise, and would do any medical ward proud. Do not suffer needlessly for what has happened.”

“But it should not have happened at all!” he cried out.

“You should learn to forgive yourself.”

“And under my watch it shall never happen again,” Mr. Holmes continued as if he had not heard me. “I bought us a dog,” he went on cheerfully.

“A dog?” I asked, confused. “Whatever for, sir? I can hardly manage to keep you and Dr. Watson inside this house, let alone another creature.” Then with a shock I guessed his purpose. “You are not going to experiment on him, are you, Mr. Holmes?”

He stretched out his hand and made to speak, but by then it was too late.

“I’ll not stand for it! To be loved and cared for by that same master who, when you become of use, will kill you for the sake of science? No, sir, I shall not let you!”

“And you would sacrifice your life for a dog?” Mr. Holmes asked with the semblance of calm, but I could feel the tension rising, “You, who nearly lost your life because of a preventable human error. No, I will not stand for that, either.”

Finding it impossible to discuss this subject with him in an unheated manner, I decided to probe where his mind would find solace, to give it a new course on which to dwell. To this end I asked, “Who was it that attempted this murder?”

“A man by the name of Lord Neville Tocqueville,” said Mr. Holmes easily. “A man who was large in title but significantly lacking in his financial accounts. Somewhat of a gambler in all things living, from human lives to horse races, and a man not inherently criminal, only driven to it by necessity; consequently, so much so that he has turned to crime more than once. Hemlock was his weapon of choice—a substance powerful enough that in small doses it can be used as a medical remedy for spasms and hydrophobia, but in larger doses can prove fatal. Its odour is the most distinctive feature about it; that is why you knew that something was amiss. Tocqueville is also a doctor, but one who could not forego the financial opportunity of instigating my demise. Now, where he is going, money will be of little use.”

I shivered and said, “I am ever grateful that his horrible plan did not succeed.” At this Mr. Holmes began to chuckle. “I fail to see what is so amusing, sir.”

He smiled and said, “Just the thought that your own mother would most likely murder me while I slept if she ever discovered what you have been through for the sake of my employment.”

“Surely you must know, Mr. Holmes, that I would never let you into her grasp should this story ever spread further.”

“I do, and I am glad for it. Further, I will ensure that our dog is wounded, ill, or very old—hopefully the latter—before he comes to use in my science.” With that he stood up, sighed peacefully and left me to rest at my leisure.

When I was sufficiently recovered, I resumed my duties as housekeeper of Baker Street, and have thus remained, and will remain to the end of my days.

A Death in Spring

As the snows of winter melted into the rains of spring, my employment with Mr. Holmes became more relaxed—not in his vigilance or habits, but rather in his becoming more receptive to my ideas and suggestions, especially concerning house and social matters, but also in some cases as well. His inferences and conclusions never ceased to amaze me. Though the doctor was far less observant and infinitely more congenial than Mr. Holmes, we were content in our place at Baker Street. We were engaged in the sitting room, discussing their latest case, when the first news of my mother’s illness reached me. I held the letter tightly in my hand, so as not to raise any immediate alarm.

“What is it, Martha?” asked Mr. Holmes, coming nearer to me. There are few things that could escape him, though at this time I must admit that I did not wish for his intense, silent interrogation.

“My mother is ill.” I folded the letter smartly, but my voice was too strained to escape notice.

“Then you must be off at once,” Mr. Holmes answered without ceremony. “Watson will escort you.”

I nodded and returned to my rooms to prepare for the journey. Privately, I read the letter again and stowed it in my coat pocket. This done, I returned to the entryway, where Dr. Watson was waiting for me. A look of worry flashed across Mr. Holmes’s face, which caused me to pause.

“Are you sure you will do well without me, sir?”

“Perfectly,” he said with the wave of his hand, the expression replaced by his usual stoicism.

A cab was called for, and soon Dr. Watson and I were on our way to Charing Cross. We sat in silence a long while, until Dr. Watson finally asked, “How ill is she?”

At first I was reluctant to share any thoughts on the matter. I soon thought better of this, however, as I knew he meant only to aid me. I reached for the letter in my pocket, but discovered it was missing; it had fallen through a hole where my fingers now appeared. No matter, I thought to myself; I could easily recite the words from memory, so deep an impression they had made upon my mind.

“The influenza has reached her lungs. A fever quickly followed, and has worsened her condition considerably. I fear the time has come to prepare for the worst.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I quickly wiped them away. Dr. Watson frowned, pondering.

“Perhaps I can help your mother,” he said quietly, attempting to reassure me.

I shook my head. “She has had fragile health for some years now. I knew of it, but whenever I mentioned doctors she would adamantly refuse.”

I could feel my face burning; my heart wanted to burst in anguish, but I wished to spare myself personal humiliation and Dr. Watson any embarrassment.

We pulled up in front of my home, and I seemed to forget all else but my mother. I ran down the front path, calling to her before I had even reached the door. I opened it and stood in the doorway, looking at my mother, whose face was more thin and worn than I had ever seen it. Her skin was ashen, and her delirium was the only real sign of life in her.

Seeing her lying helpless in this way, I completely lost myself. I cried out and knelt at her bedside, tears flowing freely down my face. A strong hand touched my shoulder, and the domestic doctor’s deep voice broke the surrounding hush.

“There is little I can do for her now,” he said slowly, and sighed. “Does she have a priest?”

I turned to face him; a sudden rush of anger and hatred coursed through me, but another voice from the doorway said my thoughts aloud.

“What, man?!” said Dr. Watson sharply. “Have you no tact? Have you no sense of propriety? Miss Beauregard has only just returned from Baker Street after receiving the news, and already you have given up hope.”

At this they began to quarrel, and I could stand it no longer. “Dr. Bradley,” I said in exasperation, “we will fetch Father Patrick later this evening if needed.” After he had left, Dr. Watson looked at me in a penitent manner.

“Doctor Watson, would you please do what you can for her? After that—” I held my breath, but then pressed on, “the rest is in God’s hands.”

He nodded solemnly. He looked down at my mother, frowned, and immediately set to work. He asked me to fetch a few things for him, but the rest of that day was spent chiefly in my own reflections. As the sun was setting over the kitchen garden, Rupert appeared in the doorway.

“Martha,” he said, kissing me gently. “I came as soon as I heard.” He looked over at where my mother lay and his forehead creased.

“Oh Rupert.” I embraced him and began to weep quietly. For a while Rupert stroked my hair as I wept; Dr. Watson stood and they shook hands.

“Well, Martha,” Dr. Watson said softly to me, “we shall hope for the best.” He tried to smile encouragingly.

I nodded and said, “Will you tell Mr. Holmes I will return as soon as possible, though I do not know how soon it will be?”

He nodded and went out. Soon the only sound in the room was my mother’s ragged breathing.

I sat in a chair near her bedside while Rupert lit candles. I took her hand and prayed silently over her, though my mind said my faith was in vain. “Please do not leave me,” I whispered, hoping she could hear my voice. I knelt down, resting my head on her arm. We remained in this way until Rupert directed me to a chair to begin the longest night of my life.

We sat in silence, watching my mother slip away. Her feverish delirium had quieted, but still she would mumble, and I constantly felt that she was trying to speak to me.

“Rupert,” I asked, attempting to fill the emptiness that stretched out before us. “What am I to do? I do not know what I will do without Mother. I should have been here sooner… If I had, perhaps I could have spared her this suffering.” I buried my face in my hands.

“You could not have known this was going to happen,” Rupert answered, I am sure to comfort me.

“I know it, but I should have spent more time with her. She was always there when I needed her, but now—” I gazed at her struggling form and sighed, despairing.

Rupert kissed me on the forehead. “I think she couldn’t be prouder.” I smiled weakly, resting my head against his shoulder, and for some minutes there was relative peace.

I was awakened from my reverie by a strangled cry from the bed. I leapt to my mother’s side as she gasped for breath. “Fetch Dr. Bradley!”

“But I can’t leave you—”

“Go, now!” I shouted desperately as she began a fit of coughing. I heard the door slam loudly, then embraced my mother tightly as she struggled between this world and the next.

“Don’t go, please don’t go,” I begged, rocking her back and forth like a child. “I can’t do this without you.” She gasped once more, her eyes closed, and she was gone.

“No…no!” I cried out in agony, shaking her limp body. My heart refused to believe her spirit had departed. At last, when I could deny it no more, I laid my head upon her breast and wept myself into a dark oblivion.

It was dawn when I awoke. The candles had sputtered out, and a sliver of light shone through the kitchen window. My mother’s body still lay where I had grasped it. I sighed and rubbed my eyes, brushing the hair from Mother’s face.

I heard the creak of a chair and turned suddenly round to see Mr. Holmes standing before me.

“Mr. Holmes,” I said with some surprise, “how long have you been sitting there?”

“A while,” he answered, “but I had not the heart to wake you.”

The realization of the task at hand made my heart sink. I looked at my mother’s lifeless body and lost all hope. I stretched out my hands to him, pleading.

“Mr. Holmes, I—”

He held up his hand, and I bowed my head. He put his fingers gently beneath my chin to raise it, and then said softly, “Do not worry about the arrangements… I shall make them for you.” I nodded gratefully.

“I will also send for Watson—We will most certainly need him. Along the way he can catch Mr. Hudson.”

I gasped as I thought of how I had sent Rupert, confused and distraught, running into the night for a doctor who was useless upon arrival.

“What is the matter, Martha?” asked Mr. Holmes with concern.

I shook my head, unable to speak. After a moment’s pause, he said, “Rupert is well, if you are concerned for him.” And further asked if I could ready my mother for burial.

I did so, though an eternity must have passed before I was finished. A peculiar mood settled upon me, and no matter how I dressed her, I felt something was amiss. From time to time I saw Mr. Holmes glance in my direction, brow knitted, but when I met his gaze he turned away.

At last Dr. Watson, Dr. Bradley, Father Patrick and Rupert arrived. I went to the garden to pick flowers as the body was laid in a simple pinewood coffin. While I was in the garden Rupert came, silently interlocking his fingers in mine. I turned to face him and he brushed my cheek affectionately. We returned to the house hand in hand, and I knew then that I would not face this ordeal alone.

We buried her on the outskirts of town, on a hill overlooking the scene near my father’s grave. The service was simple, and Father Patrick did his best for so small an audience. As the sermon ended, the dark, brooding sky displayed my suffering, and shed the water my eyes could not. Even in the rain, while others ran for shelter, I could not bear to leave the site. I thought I was alone, until I heard Mr. Holmes’s voice near my ear.

“She is not here, Martha,” he said gently, coming up beside me.

“I know that, and yet I cannot bear the thought of being without her in this world.”

“What do you mean?”

“Both my parents are now dead, sir,” I said sadly. “I have no home, no place to find refuge as my life crumbles about me.”

“That is not true,” Mr. Holmes said adamantly. “You will always have Baker Street.”

I turned to look at him, who was soaking and shivering, and said coldly, “You had better return to the house, Mr. Holmes. You will surely catch your death.”

“I’m not moving a step until you come with me.” I looked at him contemptuously, but said nothing.

Thus forced, we made our way back to the house, where a warm fire and the others were waiting.

“Martha,” said Rupert in a worried tone as he hurriedly wrapped a blanket about my shoulders. “I thought you were right behind us. Thank you for fetching her, Mr. Holmes.”

He nodded, but said nothing of what had passed between us. Dr. Bradley and Father Patrick said their final condolences and left. The four of us sat in silence as the fire crackled and the thunder boomed outside. “What are you going to do, Martha?” Rupert said at last.

I rubbed my eyes, exhausted. I attempted to focus, but no thought would come. I finally shook my head in frustration, biting my tongue to spare myself from saying anything regrettable in a moment of anger. I did not want to think anymore, to try anymore.

“I think the best thing, for the next couple of days at least, is for Miss Beauregard to come back with Dr. Watson and I until we can properly decide what to do.”

Rupert began to protest, but at a stern glance from Mr. Holmes fell silent. “We will take good care of her for you, Mr. Hudson.”

At this, Rupert nodded, sighed and rose to leave.

“Rupert,” I called, and he turned in the doorway. I kissed him and said, “I will let you know what is to be done as soon as I find out myself.” He smiled, kissed me again, and was gone.

Shortly thereafter, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and I were driving back to Baker Street. We entered the house without much talk, whereupon Mr. Holmes ordered me straight to bed. “For now you must rest, Martha. We will leave the other matters until morning.” He sniffled and coughed, but I thought of nothing save to follow his first direct order. As soon as my head felt the pillow beneath it, I was deeply asleep.

I was awakened sometime in the night by a loud, continuous coughing. At first I thought I was dreaming, reliving my mother’s final moments. When it did not desist, however, I arose, attempting to follow the sound. I discovered it was coming from Mr. Holmes’s room, where a lamp still burned. I knocked softly, and hearing a rough “Come in,” I entered.

Mr. Holmes sat up in bed, his face red from the used handkerchiefs strewn about on the floor. He sneezed and coughed, his voice deep and strained. “Did I wake you? I’m terribly sorry about that.”

“I thought I was dreaming at first; when the coughing did not stop, I came to see what the matter was.”

“Do not fear; it is nothing more than a horrendous cold.” He continued to cough and sniffle, but acted as though nothing was amiss.

“The fault is mine,” I said penitently. “Had I followed the others to the house, this would not have happened.”

He dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “I would have gladly done more had there been a need.”

I nodded and turned to leave, but before I could stop myself I had asked, “How did you know to come when you did?”

He thought for a long moment, and then said, “It was more unfortunate that I did not arrive sooner. I was on a case soon after you left me, but as soon as I returned to Baker Street, Watson was waiting for me. He apprised me of your situation, and we left for Charing Cross immediately… Alas, we were too late.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” I said quietly, struggling to retain composure.

“Still…” He paused, and a tense hush filled the room. He broke out of his reverie and said, “My wish is to help you in any way possible.”

“You have already done so much,” I said in some distress. “I do not wish to burden you further.”

“Burden? You have never been a burden,” Mr. Holmes replied with conviction. He coughed once more and shook his head to clear it.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” I said. “I don’t know what is to become of me.” I fell, despairing, into the nearest chair.

Taken aback, Mr. Holmes said nervously, “I had hoped that you would stay on at Baker Street…” I raised my head sharply, taking in his meaning. “Not as hired help but as a permanent resident.”

Words failed me entirely. Unsure of my feelings, Mr. Holmes pressed on. “You can sell the house at Charing Cross… Watson needs the company, and Mr. Hudson would be welcome also.”

“I fear, sir, that you are being far too generous with me.”

“Not at all,” he assured me nonchalantly. “You have served me better than I deserve for quite some time, and it is high time I repaid you. Besides, considering your current situation, I thought it the most logical action.”

Overwhelmed with gratitude, I whispered, “You are a noble soul, Mr. Holmes.”

He inhaled deeply. “Well, I don’t know about that—I was only taking the most practical course.”

I nodded, rose, and after a quiet “thank you” left the room. That night I slept in peace, grateful for angels in the guise of mortal men.

Thus, it was through this event that I became a permanent fixture of Baker Street, bestowing my services on the home and its residents for many years to come.

The Diamond Thief

Some weeks after my mother’s death, I had sold the house at Charing Cross and made Baker Street my home. I was well received by Dr. Watson, who one day privately assured me that I was a welcome addition to the family. After his initial proposal, Mr. Holmes had never since spoken of it, but I suspect that he enjoyed the prospect of a womanly influence in the house as well as anyone. As for myself, I soon became completely comfortable with my new life, save for times of extreme difficulty when meals went untouched or my masters were in physical danger. Rupert was also allowed to visit often, though he was significantly less comfortable with Mr. Holmes’s methods of interrogation, and so on occasion we left Baker Street for the outskirts of the city.

It was on one of these outings, as we were walking along the hills near the edge of town, that Rupert struck up a conversation with me.

“Martha,” he said nervously, “Do you enjoy living at Baker Street?”

“Yes, of course,” I answered without hesitation. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are most generous and kind to me.”

He inhaled sharply and continued, “Could you be happier somewhere else…with someone else?”

“I suppose so,” I said, confused. “But why—” I turned my head to look at him and became instantly worried. He was deathly pale, and looked as if he might faint.

“Rupert, what is the matter? You look ill. Perhaps we should turn back.”

As I turned around to head off the hill, Rupert grasped my hand, kissed me hard upon the lips, and before I could gain my bearings, was kneeling on the ground before me.

“I wish for you to be my wife,” he said quickly, his hands trembling. “Oh Martha, you do not know how long I have loved and adored you. If you would agree to marry me, I would be the happiest man alive!”

As I stared down at him in disbelief, my head began to spin. Taking my lack of speech for a misstep, Rupert hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry, Martha, I only thought—”

I came to my senses, and after a moment’s pause took his face in my hands and kissed him lovingly on the mouth. “I will gladly be your wife.”

Rupert smiled and laughed, and I thought I had never heard a happier sound in all my life. He lifted me into the air, spun me around and set me gently down again. I embraced him tearfully, for never had I felt such joy.

“I have something for you,” he said when at last we parted. He dug into his jacket pocket, producing a tiny black box. I gasped as he flicked it open to reveal a ring that shimmered even in the dim, hazy sunlight.

“Oh Rupert,” I whispered, aghast. “It’s beautiful. But how did you ever pay for it?”

“It’s made of glass,” he answered as he slipped it carefully onto my finger. “But when we have enough, I shall get you a proper one.”

“I do not want a ‘proper one,’” I said adamantly as I turned my fingers in the light. “I like this one.”

It was dark before we returned to Baker Street, but not long had passed before I shared the news.

“Congratulations, old boy,” said Dr. Watson brightly as he and Rupert shook hands. Mr. Holmes had not moved from his chair by the fire. I approached him carefully, giving him my hand.

“It has happened at last,” he whispered. Whether this comment was to himself or for me, I could never be sure. His forehead creased for but a moment, then he looked up into my face and smiled. “I’ll wager some congratulations are in order.” He stood up, extending his hand toward Rupert.

When we had been sufficiently dined and toasted for our upcoming marriage, at Dr. Watson’s request I told the story of Rupert’s proposal. Mr. Holmes said not a word, only listened, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling.

At last all conversation was exhausted, and the bright stars were once again fading into the pale colors of dawn; Rupert and I bid farewell to one another, and Dr. Watson took me by the shoulders.

“It is a lucky man who would have the chance to take you down the aisle.”

I smiled happily and then looked toward Mr. Holmes, who was asleep in his chair. I sighed and turned again to Dr. Watson. “My father is dead, sir,” I said carefully. “But—”

“Yes? What is it?” he urged.

“I was wondering if it might be too much trouble for you to serve in his place.”

Dr. Watson’s brow furrowed. “My dear girl, I could never replace your father…”

“No, you are not old enough to be my father,” I laughed quietly. “But I would like very much for you to walk with me down the aisle.”

He smiled, his eyes bright. “I would be honored.” Dr. Watson then took my hand, kissed it lightly and left the room.

The day passed without incident until darkness had once more spread over the sky. The moon shone brightly, but no stars were visible. I had only just extinguished my lamp when I saw a shadow move across my window. Standing at the ready without any further confrontation, I ventured to bed. Some minutes later, I heard footsteps in the hall near the far bedrooms. Fearing for the lives of my employers, I immediately grabbed up a candlestick and set out to follow the sound. I heard doors slowly open and close again, realizing that if the intruder continued in the same course, we would meet. I waited, candlestick raised. Suddenly without warning a black glove seized my throat. I choked, gasping for breath. The fingers finally released, spots of light appearing before my eyes. Before I could gather my thoughts to defend myself, the intruder hit me smartly over the head with a heavy object, and I fell senseless to the floor.

I awoke some time later where I had fallen. The house was still dark, though the light in front of my eyes did not cease. My head throbbed in pain, and the left side of my face was damp. I called out to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, but with no response. I attempted to get back to my rooms, but as soon as I stood, I could feel the floor slipping beneath me. I heard something shatter nearby and saw a lamp lit from inside a room. The door opened and I saw a silhouette standing over me. It bent forward and I fought to crawl away, sure the intruder had come to finish me.

“Martha, stop struggling,” said Mr. Holmes in a stern voice. He lit a lamp and I focused on his tall, thin profile.

“An intruder came to rob you, Mr. Holmes.” I held my head in my hands to block the pain, and I felt a weakness settling over my body.

“An intruder? How did you come to—” He faced me, and I saw his eyes widen. He walked quickly over to me, removing my hand from my face to find it was covered in blood.

Remaining calm, he asked if I could stand. When I responded in the negative, he wrapped his arms around me and lifted me gently from the floor. “Watson?” he called. Dr. Watson responded sleepily. When his drowsiness had left him, he quickly took me from Mr. Holmes and carried me to his own quarters.

Dr. Watson began to wash my face, while Mr. Holmes conducted a search of the house. He returned to the room puzzled. “Nothing is missing,” he said, his brow knitted.

“I swear on my life there was someone here,” I said in distress.

“That fact is obvious,” Mr. Holmes replied, examining me closely, “But what did they want?” He tapped his pipe against his jaw, staring blankly. Then he frowned slightly.

“It is not I, but you Miss Beauregard, who is the victim of this crime.”

“I only meant to save you from any harm.”

“Look down at your hand.”

I did so, and indeed, the ring that Rupert had given me was missing. “But why?” I asked in alarm. “Why would someone want to steal a ring made of glass?”

“Is it?” my master answered in some surprise. “If that is the case then it is our thief who has been deceived. I will call on Mr. Hudson to make certain of this fact.”

Within the hour Rupert was again at Baker Street. He ran up the stairs calling my name, and when he found me grasped my hands and kissed them.

“Mr. Hudson,” said Mr. Holmes interrogatively. “The ring you gave Miss Beauregard yesterday is missing. She insists, however, that the ring would be of little worth because it is made of glass. Is this true?”

Rupert grew pale again and was quiet for some minutes.

“Speak, man,” Mr. Holmes insisted impatiently.

Rupert stared at me intently, his eyes full of sadness. “No, it is not true.”

“What?” I whispered, stunned.

“I said it was glass so that you would not argue with me over its price,” he said. “But the ring is actually a diamond…a Giuliano diamond.”

I gasped, horrified, at this revelation. “How could you?” I asked, my anger mounting. “You have deceived me. How can I trust you if our marriage begins with lies?”

“Can you forgive me?” Rupert reached for my hand, but I pulled away. He shifted to the edge of the bed, head bowed.

A tense silence followed. Mr. Holmes said at last, “We will find the ring.” His eyes searched both of us in turn, his brow furrowed in concern. When I would not meet his gaze, he spoke to the room at large.

“Do you remember anything?”

“A black glove seized me by the throat, and let go just before I would have fainted away.”

“Yes.” Mr. Holmes lifted my chin and was examining my neck when Rupert suddenly stood up and left the room. I heard his footsteps on the stairs, the front door opened and closed, and he was gone.

Mr. Holmes watched him carefully, then turned back to me. “The marks on your neck indicate that our intruder was a woman.”

I looked at him incredulously. “Mr. Holmes, you would think that I would have strength over someone of my own sex.”

“It is not a question of strength,” he replied. “Watson, how would you account for the blood?”

In the events that had recently passed, I had entirely forgotten that Dr. Watson was present. He answered, “A heavy object came down upon the left side of her head. Am I correct, Martha?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Watson then continued, “I also heard something shatter in the hall before you brought her to me, Holmes. I was coming to investigate when you called out.”

I got up shakily from the bed, and with Dr. Watson’s help passed into the hall, where there were the remains of a shattered statue and, nearby, a small pool of blood.

“A miracle,” Dr. Watson whispered; Mr. Holmes bent low, turning the pieces over and over in his hands.

“What is—?” I turned to him, confused.

Mr. Holmes finished Dr. Watson’s thought. “Had you been hit over the head with this statue, as Watson surmises, you would have most likely not lived to see another day. That would have been a fatal blow indeed.”

I trembled as I gazed at the shattered statue on the floor.

“What happened before the gloved hand, Martha? Can you remember?”

I shook my head. “I came down the hall and—” My head began to throb as before, and my thoughts became clouded. I covered my eyes with my hands to shield them from the light.

“That’s enough, Holmes,” said Dr. Watson gently as he took me by the arm. “She needs to rest now.”

Mr. Holmes nodded and doused the light. Dr. Watson led me back to my room, ordering me to rest. “I do not want you to worry about what has passed tonight,” he said. “We will try again in the morning.” I nodded and as soon as the door closed I fell into a deep sleep.

When I awoke sometime in the late morning, the throbbing in my head had relieved somewhat. I passed my hands over my eyes, expecting my vision to clear. Though I rubbed them, my vision remained blurred. Frightened, I called out to Dr. Watson. He led me into the sitting room, where he examined my eyes.

“Sir,” I asked desperately, “am I going to lose my sight?”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t believe so. But you must tell me at once if your vision worsens.”

Just then Mr. Holmes opened the front door, looking agitated.

“Any luck?” asked Dr. Watson.

“We still definitely have a motive—that diamond was quite expensive—but when I spoke to the jewelers, they did not observe anything suspicious or remember anyone in particular.”

“Any ideas?”

“Theories, but not facts. Are you feeling better, Martha?”

When I did not answer, he turned to me. Distracted, I had not heard him. I was wondering if I would ever see Rupert again, literally and figuratively. He asked again and I replied, “Yes, I am well.” I stood up shakily and returned to my room. I did not come out again save to make meals for my masters, but even now I am unsure whether they were edible or not.

A few nights later, while my vision was still recovering, I went to light a candle to read by and discovered the candlestick was missing. Suddenly the night of the burglary was once again clearly before me in my mind. I went quickly to Mr. Holmes’s door and without knocking entered the room.

“Mr. Holmes, the candlestick!” I said excitedly.

“What?”

The candlestick,” I repeated feverishly. “It is missing. I grabbed it to defend myself when I heard the intruder.”

“So your own weapon was used against you,” Mr. Holmes said, his mind working quickly. “Then the intruder, seeing that you had fallen, took the weapon with her.”

“And the ring,” I said bitterly, looking down at my empty finger. Mr. Holmes looked up at me, but said nothing.

Over the next few days life resumed as usual, though Rupert did not come to visit me. The more time passed, the more depressed and bitter I became. I began to believe that Rupert’s proposal was nothing but a dream, and the reality was he felt nothing for me at all.

One day, as Dr. Watson and I were walking toward Regent’s Park—he said it would be good for my recovery—the doctor took me by the arm and whisked us suddenly into a jewelry shop.

“Sir, what are you doing?” I asked, alarmed.

“I’m not sure… Try to act naturally. Sherlock has some sort of plan working in his head; he asked me to follow his instructions to the letter.”

“And what were those instructions?” I whispered.

“To buy the most expensive object here, give it to you, and act as if we were husband and wife.” He smiled and called a clerk over to aid us.

I nearly laughed aloud. “That’s preposterous,” I could not help but smile. “I wonder if Mr. Holmes is watching us from afar, hidden, laughing at us even now.”

“Do you trust him?” Dr. Watson said more seriously.

I nodded, and the dealing commenced. When we had finished, I had an emerald pendant the size of my fist around my neck. As we left the jewelers, I felt like the wealthiest woman in the world. We headed back toward Baker Street at once, when Dr. Watson stiffened up.

He leaned close to my ear. “We’re being followed.”

“Take my hand,” I said suddenly, thinking quickly. He looked at me strangely.

“Take my hand… No one will believe we’re husband and wife if we walk apart after you bought this jewel.”

He did so. At last we arrived at Baker Street, and as soon as we entered the house we broke apart. Mr. Holmes had a sly look on his face.

“What was that about?” I asked, somewhat flustered.

Mr. Holmes put a finger to his lips and pointed to the window. I saw the flourish of a beautiful violet dress just before the street was empty once more.

“I had to prove my theory,” Mr. Holmes replied with a grin.

I sighed, tears nearly coming to my eyes. I took the necklace from my neck and placed it in my master’s hands. “But I have…had a fiancé. I remain true to him; if he had not lied, this would not have happened. If you will excuse me, I would like to rest before I resume my duties for the evening.”

When silence met my request, I curtsied and went out. Once in my room, I let my tears flow freely until I had only enough energy to finish my evening duties and come back again to my quarters. I remember that night as one of the longest and loneliest nights of my life.

The next day, as I was preparing the morning meal, Mr. Holmes came into the kitchen and without further ceremony handed me a small wooden box. When I opened it, I could feel my eyes widen in surprise.

“Where did you find it?” I asked.

“The woman you glimpsed yesterday is the one who is to blame.”

“Thank you,” I said, but with little conviction; I set it on the table, for I could not bear to put it on.

Mr. Holmes looked at me steadily. “There are worse things than rings to be upset about.”

“Oh Mr. Holmes,” I cried, my eyes brimming with tears. “But what is love without trust? Surely you must agree with me on that account.”

“I will grant his deception was unwise,” he said resolutely. “But if I can prove he still loves you, and loves you deeply, will you receive him and be reconciled?”

I nodded and he left. Shortly thereafter, I heard footsteps walking up to the porch, and Rupert stood in the doorway.

It was some moments before either of us moved. Then, all at once, we were embracing and he kissed me. “These days and nights without you have been the loneliest of my life,” he told me. “Can you ever forgive me?”

Unable to speak, I merely nodded, and after he had brushed my cheek affectionately, he took up the ring box and knelt again.

“Will you, Martha Beauregard, be my wife?”

“No deceptions?” I asked, fighting to look stern.

“Never again,” he promised, and I knew it was true.

“Then yes, I will!” I laughed and we kissed until I sensed we were being watched.

I turned to see Mr. Holmes leaning on the doorpost smiling to himself.

“Mr. Holmes,” I asked, hoping to encourage his moment of triumph, “would you care to tell us who caused this rift between us?”

He was happy to oblige. “The chief cause of all this trouble is Irene Adler, a woman of infinite mystery and an impeccable jewel thief when the need to bargain arises. She often works under the guise of others, but in this case she worked alone. I suspect she must have been watching the shop your Mr. Hudson walked into, and when he bought a ring of such worth she followed him, believing him to be a wealthy man. You, once he placed it on your finger, were the target. Her one mistake, however, was committing her crime in the dark. Not knowing who you or Watson were, when I made up the same scheme against her, she only realized her folly after she was caught in the trap. ”

“Do you know much about her?” I asked.

When he fell silent and grew pale, I decided not to press him. Since that time, when I have asked after Miss Adler in other cases, he still would not divulge much about her. To this day I fear that he might have had affections for her, but alas, I can do nothing more than conjecture on this matter. And so I must cease my speculation and, at least in the case of Miss Irene Adler, let Mr. Holmes alone.

Wedding Bells and Warnings

In the summer months that followed the diamond investigation, my wedding plans came to the forefront, and although Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson later admitted that all went well during those months, they were largely left to themselves, for which I later felt the pangs of friendly penitence. During that time, I was constantly moving back and forth between Baker Street and Charing Cross, gathering material for my wedding dress—which was sewn late at night by the fire at Baker Street. I have never since heard Mr. Holmes utter more words in one sitting than on those nights—forming guest lists, and the overall preparations for my upcoming nuptials. My relief, in a large part, also came from Rupert’s mother, my soon to be mother-in-law, who not only helped in my preparations, but also treated me as one of her own children in times of particular strain. Thus, though my own parents had passed away, I had others to take part in the great event.

At last the wedding day arrived, and I arose wishing to remain calm, though it was nearly impossible. I began to prepare a meal, as I always had done at Baker Street. A few minutes later, Mr. Holmes came into the kitchen; when he saw me his expression clouded.

“What are you doing here?” he said roughly.

Somewhat astonished by his treatment of me, I said carefully, “Preparing a meal, sir.”

“You have a wedding to prepare for,” he answered. “You should be in Charing Cross this very moment.”

“I have neglected you long enough,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even.

“Of all the days…” Mr. Holmes mumbled to himself, then said aloud to me, “one more day of neglect will kill no one.”

“Can I do this, Mr. Holmes?” The truth was out; I wrung my hands and could not focus properly on any one object in the room.

Mr. Holmes met my eyes and took me squarely by the shoulders. “You do love him, don’t you?”

“More than anything in the world.”

“Then it is time to show the world who you love the most. Now go, before the entire town decides to hunt me down.”

I breathed deeply, relieved by this encouragement. As I opened the door to depart, Mr. Holmes called after me. “Watson will bring your dress in a couple hours’ time.”

I ran down the porch steps, but just before the cab arrived, I did the unthinkable—I ran back into the house, embraced Mr. Holmes where he stood, whispered a quick “thank you” and rushed out again. I believe I heard something like “silly girl” muttered in my wake.

The next few hours were spent in the hands of my mother’s friends, who insisted that my face and hair be primped and polished until I could bear it no longer. My fingers suffered the same fate. The ladies positively howled when Dr. Watson arrived with my dress, appalled that a man should be carrying a woman’s apparel, especially on her wedding day.

“May I speak with the bride for a minute or two?” asked Dr. Watson cordially.

I left the ladies to surmise and gossip as they pleased, and stepped into the hallway.

“What is it, sir?” I asked with some concern.

“If you ask me, I’d say you needed a breather.” He smiled slightly, and I could not suppress a laugh.

“But I also… Ah…” He fidgeted and quickly handed me a small blue handkerchief. “There,” Dr. Watson said hurriedly. “I hope I got it right. Something about having blue on your wedding day.” He shrugged, interlocking his fingers nervously.

I smiled, and could not resist embracing him also. “It’s perfect.”

“Baker Street will not be the same without you, Miss Beauregard… But I should call you Mrs. Hudson now,” he admitted shyly.

“To you I shall always be Martha,” I said before the door opened and I was drawn in by insistent, busy hands.

Eventually, when all was ready concerning my person, I was left alone. I could not be still, and so I wandered the halls of the church for a time, pondering on the many events that had led me to the present moment. In my wanderings I found myself in front of the chapel doors, and after a moment’s pause, slowly opened them.

As I entered, the sun streamed beautifully through the stained-glass windows, filling the room with beams of color. To my surprise, I discovered someone sitting alone in the pews near the center. As I rustled lightly down the aisle, he turned, and I smiled.

“You’re early,” I said, sitting down next to him.

“I wouldn’t miss an occasion like this for all the world.” said Mr. Holmes tentatively. Knowing that it was difficult for him to enjoy such social gatherings, that was a very high compliment indeed.

“Surely sir, an extra half-hour, rather than a whole one, would have been sufficient.”

He chuckled and tapped his fingers together, pondering.

“Are you well, Mr. Holmes?” I asked.

“Yes. I only wish that I had been more prepared for a day such as this one…a day I knew would come too quickly for me.”

It was my turn to laugh now. “Worry not, you shall never lose me as a friend.”

“You, and Rupert as well, are always welcome at Baker Street,” said Mr. Holmes, smiling slightly. “I am sure Watson will be glad for the merrier company, for I am not always the best of companions.”

I giggled, and for a while we sat in peaceful silence. Realizing the time for the ceremony was at hand, I rose, saying, “I had better see that all is in order before the wedding begins,” and I turned away.

“Martha,” Mr. Holmes called, and I turned back. He took me by the shoulders, smiled once more and sighed. “You look beautiful,” he said—then he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

Taken aback by this show of affection, I paused before leaving the chapel, watching my former employer sitting alone, and hoping in my heart that he could find such happiness as I had found in Rupert.

The ceremony went perfectly—Dr. Watson did quite well in giving me away, though he might say otherwise—the day was fine and joy abounded.

A few times I caught Mr. Holmes looking about suspiciously, as was his way, for few were trustworthy, and all were thrust beneath his interrogative stare. As is generally expected, however, I was distracted by the music, dancing, and the many well-wishers who congratulated us as we passed them. William Hughes, Mary Moore and Thomas Gray, along with many of our friends from childhood, came to wish us well, and I could not have been happier.

As the sun was slowly sinking over the park, Rupert and I were bidding farewell to many of the guests as Mr. Holmes approached stealthily. He smiled and went to embrace me, but as he did so he whispered in my ear, “Beware, you are being watched.” He squeezed me tightly, and gave me such an earnest look that I dared not question it.

“Mr. Holmes…” I started to say, but he shook hands with Rupert, turned away and was gone.

I turned about nervously and saw a pair of eyes I knew well, surrounded by dank, dark hair. The shadow moved off slowly, then disappeared from sight.

At last, when all the guests had departed and we retired to our rooms, Rupert sighed in relief. “At last we can be alone together.” He came up behind me, and I stared at our reflection in the full-length mirror. Mr. Holmes’s warning came quickly to my mind. I turned to Rupert, worried.

“Mr. Holmes told me that we were being watched this evening,” I said nervously.

Rupert then did something unexpected; he laughed aloud. Seeing my look of consternation, he said, “Come now, Martha. You know how suspicious he becomes at social functions. Besides, logically,” he smiled slyly, “we were being watched by everyone.”

Sensing my lingering fear, Rupert kissed me reassuringly and whispered, “Worry not, my dearest Martha; I shall protect you now and for ever after.”

I smiled and soon felt at peace again, falling asleep in Rupert’s arms. But oh, how I wish now that I had heeded that warning given so long ago!

Two Fatal Wounds

In a few short months upon my marriage to Rupert, and ending my employment with Mr. Holmes, we were settled in a comfortable, modest home. This particular evening, Rupert had not yet returned home from his work, and I was making supper. The rain poured heavily, and as the afternoon waned into twilight, Rupert opened the door.

“Rupert, my love,” said I, “I feared that you might have been swept away by some creature of the night.”

“No, my dear,” he answered as he took me up in his arms. “I shall always find my way back to you.” We began to dance, and as we laughed and twirled again and again, I suddenly remembered supper.

“Oh, the supper is burning!” I cried, and ran to fetch it.

Rupert took my hand and said, smiling, “Then we shall fast, for love is all the food we shall need tonight. Dance with me still, my darling!” We continued to do so, all else forgotten, until suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass and Rupert halted. “Martha,” he said as if strained; then a second shot rang out.

“Rupert?” I asked. Struck by this sudden change, I touched his back and realized he was bleeding. “Rupert? No!” He fell into my arms, and as I lowered him to the floor, he whispered “Martha,” once more and was gone. I sobbed over his lifeless form for what seemed like an age, unable to move or think. At last I collected myself enough to get to Baker Street.

Upon my arrival, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson greeted me warmly, Mr. Holmes saying, “My dear Mrs. Hudson, how very good of you to call upon us this evening. What brings you here this hour?”

I cannot recollect how long I stood there in silence, but at last I said, “Rupert is… Rupert is…” and was in the next moment awakened by the pungent smell of salts.

“What has befallen your husband?” asked Mr. Holmes. “Is he ill?” His brow creased in worry.

“He is dead, Mr. Holmes—dead!” I wept continually for the next hour, while Mr. Holmes called on Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard and begged me to explain.

“We were dancing in the kitchen—I had let the supper burn—and then through the window two shots were fired… We have no enemies that I know of. Who would do this, Mr. Holmes?”

He shook his head, confused and disgusted, and began pacing the room. “The two shots hit Rupert in the back, I presume?”

I nodded, feeling the room spin around me. Dr. Watson held tight to my arm and I was glad he did so. Mr. Holmes continued, “Did he say anything to you before he…died?”

I sobbed anew at this, for hearing the news from someone else’s lips felt to me as though I had never heard it until that moment. A heavy silence pervaded the room and, except for my weeping, there was no other noise for a time. Mr. Holmes asked again, more gently, “Martha, did he say anything?”

“My name,” I attempted to breathe steadily, “twice. And then he was gone. Ah, my dearest Rupert is gone!” I cried out in agony. I still had not the faintest idea who would wish to murder my husband. Just then the inspector knocked at the door. He gave Mr. Holmes something, told him some particulars and said that he believed Mr. Holmes should inspect the area himself to see if he could discover anything. He nodded, closed the door and asked Dr. Watson for a private conference. After a few minutes Mr. Holmes returned, saying, “I shall be back shortly. Dr. Watson will take care of you until my return.” He must have seen my face, for he then said, “We will find him Martha, I promise.”

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.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Copyright

The Hudson Diaries: The Life and Times of a Baker Street Resident

The Interview

The Stolen Letters

An Intimate Case

The Poison Cup

A Death in Spring

The Diamond Thief

Wedding Bells and Warnings

Two Fatal Wounds