Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets (13 page)

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s the simplest of cases.”

“And the other one?”

Sherlock twisted, hands still behind his back. “Other one, Watson?”

Her grin revealed a piece of ham caught between her two front teeth. “Oh, come on, Holmes. Even I notice some things. You haven’t been eating again. What slipper is caught between your teeth?”

Sherlock frowned, disliking Watson’s favourite metaphor: that on a new case, he was like a puppy with a new slipper to chew. “Something important,” he muttered, turning away once more to look down on the people hurrying below. “Did you want something, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Just collecting the plates and cups, Mr. Holmes.”

“It’s to do with Moriarty, isn’t it?” Watson pressed.

The cup Mrs. Hudson was holding nearly slipped off the saucer and made a loud
clink
as she recovered it. She looked up at Holmes, waiting for his reply, but he was scowling at the teacup. She had overstayed her welcome.

She picked up the tray, trying to seem disinterested, but she lingered outside the door long enough to hear his reply.

“It is, Watson. But not, perhaps, in the way you might imagine.”

“Oh?”

“Another time, my friend. There is still data to gather. But all will soon become clear.”

M
RS
. H
UDSON WAS
back in Sherlock’s living room by ten the next morning, having spent the two hours since breakfast waiting for him and Watson to leave. The news of a lead to Moriarty had made her restless, and she had to be careful not to upset him. All of these other cases were just distractions. Moriarty was the prize, and she knew it just as well as he did.

The cleaning bot took less than a minute to set up and activate. Its eight legs twitched in its calibration routine before it crawled over to the nearest book case and began sucking up the dust with its metal proboscis. She unplugged the armadillo-like carpet cleaner from its charger and set that off to work too.

It left her free to read Watson’s journal. The doctor was an incredibly skilled woman, but not, thankfully, when it came to hiding her back-ups. Every time Mrs. Hudson pulled the tiny flash drive from the soil of the potted plant, she was grateful for the fact that Watson was old-fashioned enough to back up on a near-obsolete physical drive every day.

Watson had no idea she knew the hiding place. She connected via her Chip, entering the password that hadn’t changed in over five years and had only taken three goes to guess correctly, and downloaded the latest journal entry. Five minutes later, she was sitting in her own living room as the bots worked in the room above, drinking tea and reading the private entry.

Journal: May 6
^th
, 2031 My date turned out to be a rake-thin publicist for some sort of media company (the name of which I have already forgotten). She was just as self-absorbed as Holmes, but without the intellect and, of course, as soon as she made the connection, it was the usual round of questions about him. That’s the last time I let Carrie organise a blind date for me. Honestly, I’m better off single.

What happened before I got to the restaurant was far more interesting. I met Holmes outside the address as arranged, looking suit and very dapper in his
I’m-going-to-a-concert
greatcoat, and the nephew arrived a minute after me.

“I need only three items— or lack thereof— to determine the whereabouts of your aunt,” Holmes said to Mr. Eddard. He used that deep voice that comes from the sure knowledge that he was soon to dazzle us with his superior intellect. He’s such a drama queen.

Mr. Eddard asked us to be quiet; it was clear the uncle had no idea the nephew was letting us in. The poor man was on the top floor of the rickety town house, one of the low-rent properties supplied by the government to keep poor people away from their wealthy neighbourhoods. I could smell the cheap chest-rub that back-street doctors still prescribe off-grid. Indeed, we were still adjusting to the dim light when the most appalling coughing started upstairs. I fear the uncle has neo-tuberculosis and whispered to the nephew that he needed to make sure his vaccinations were up to date. I didn’t have the heart to tell him his uncle would likely die within the week. It was hard not to go up there and tend to him, but without clearance to enter on medical grounds—and the fact the uncle was obviously trying to keep his illness off-grid— there was nothing I could do that wouldn’t land a DotGov team in the property and me in a cell by the end of the night. He was too far gone to have any hope of recovery, but it was hard being unable to give him something to make his last days more comfortable.

Holmes went straight into the living room/kitchen. We could hear the family next door through the paper-thin partition. There’d been no effort to make it look anything other than a once-pleasant house chopped into the smallest legally-permitted slices. I wondered if the uncle and aunt considered themselves lucky. I’ve tended to people south of the river in houses where there are ten to a room. NeoTB sweeps through those places so fast the DotGov teams barely get the children registered before they’re dead.

Both Mr. Eddard and I watched Holmes scan the room and then go to the chipped photo frame in the corner. It was old enough to still need an ether cable connection to the communal network. I haven’t seen one plugged into a photo frame since I was a child.

Holmes pointed, unable to bring himself to touch it, and said “Show me their wedding photos, Mr. Eddard.”

Eddard didn’t move. “There aren’t any, Mr. Holmes. They married abroad, in secret.”

Holmes looked at me then, with the sparkle in his eyes of one more piece falling into place. “Then show us all the photos of them together.”

“There aren’t any. As I said, Mr. Holmes, they were estranged. My uncle deleted them all. There are a few of them with other people. Would you like to see those?”

Holmes gave one of those grunts, conveying that the offer was superfluous to his needs but of interest nonetheless. Eddard cycled the photos, but they were so grainy, taken on obsolete equipment instead of the hi-res LensCams most of us are used to now. Holmes was attentive, but made no comment.

“You said they sleep in separate rooms,” Holmes said once the sad display was over. “These places rarely have two bedrooms.”

“My uncle made the attic space into her room.” Eddard’s eyes widened. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? It’s... not entirely legal.”

“Show me her room.”

“You can only get to it by a ladder from the upstairs landing.”

“That’s of no concern to me,” Holmes said and waved a hand in my direction. “Nor Watson.”

“We’ll have to be quieter up there,” Eddard said. “The ladder is right outside my uncle’s room.”

We climbed the stairs and gave Eddard a moment to check in on his uncle, and then all three of us climbed the ladder. Eddard’s fears that his uncle would hear us were unfounded; the poor devil was seized by frequent coughing fits and was barely conscious between.

The attic space was a tragic, dingy garret without a window and only a solitary light bulb hanging from the eaves to light it. There was a single chest of drawers, a canvas wardrobe with black mold creeping up the sides and a small bed covered with a faded comforter. The smell of damp wood and misery lowered my spirits immeasurably. Perhaps that was another reason why the date was disastrous. To go from that place to a restaurant where a starter costs more than Eddard’s family live off per week made me feel wretched.

Holmes went straight to the top drawer and opened it. Eddard stood back in shocked silence at his effrontery but, like most clients, didn’t dare say a word. Holmes rummaged, nodded to himself and then looked in the drawer below. After a swift inspection of the contents and then those of the wardrobe—a few dresses still hung in there—he turned and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Mr. Eddard, your aunt has not disappeared. She never existed in the first place.”

Eddard looked as shocked as I must have. “But I used to see her every week! Are you saying I’m mad?”

“Not at all. I’m saying you have been duped into believing your uncle married a woman before you were born and lived with her in this house. But the woman he married abroad never returned with him. I’m willing to stake my professional reputation on the supposition that if one were to delve into the license details held by DotGov, one would discover they married in a county with less rigorous requirements than our own—and that all her records would have been established by proxy, rather than in person. You are in your early thirties. Thirty years ago, the DotGov teams as we know them didn’t exist.”

Eddard opened and closed his mouth several times, like a goldfish spilt from its tank.

“But who did Mr. Eddard see every week?” I asked on his behalf. “I doubt the uncle could afford an actress. And why keep up the pretence anyway?”

“There was no need for an actress, Watson,” Holmes said. “The uncle played the role of the aunt himself.”

“Now this is just too much!” Eddard blurted.

“As for why he should keep up the pretence, I imagine it was a simple need to have two DotGov living allowances subsidising the household rather than one. And married couples get preferential treatment on housing lists.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Holmes opened the top drawer and pulled out a handful of padded breast forms, stitched crudely into shape, and dropped them onto the bed. Then he dumped a pile of corsets on top. When Eddard remained silent, Holmes pulled out what looked like a box of tissues, only to reveal a hidden compartment inside filled with heavy-duty make up. “I assume your aunt was always immaculately presented?”

Eddard nodded dumbly.

“I would be unsurprised to find wigs under the bed. Of course, no one has ever slept up here.” He pulled back the comforter with a dramatic flourish, revealing a pillow resting atop a rectangle of foam propped up on several piles of bricks, collectively masquerading as a bed. “Your uncle has been too ill to reprise his role for your weekly visits. NeoTB has a rapid onset and decline. He didn’t have time to craft a story for your benefit.”

“But... surely... why didn’t I notice?”

“You loved your aunt, didn’t you?” I asked him. “And your uncle was the one who made her miserable. I doubt you even looked at him that often. Am I right?”

He nodded, a singletear breaking free. “I’m such an idiot.”

“People notice very little,” Holmes said. “And they too easily believe that which they wish to. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mr. Eddard, Watson and I have other engagements this evening. May I bid you goodnight?”

“What do I do now?” Eddard asked me once Holmes was down the ladder.

“If I were in your place,” I said, “I would make your uncle’s last days as comfortable as possible and then contact DotGov with a full account of what Holmes uncovered. I will vouch for the reasons behind the delay, should they make a fuss.”

“But shouldn’t I confront him?”

“To what end?” I embraced him then. He seemed so vulnerable. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you. But you will heal. Try to forgive your uncle.”

I have no idea whether he will ever be able to—or to forgive himself for not noticing. How strange to love someone who never existed.

And now it’s the morning after and Holmes has only one more loose end he wishes to pursue before revealing his findings on Moriarty to me this evening. I’m rather excited, despite the fact I’ve decided to report the Neo-TB case at the Eddard property. It’s the right thing to do for the rest of the street. Doesn’t make it any easier, though.

T
HERE WAS FOOD
to buy and errands to run, but Mrs. Hudson couldn’t leave the house and risk missing a single detail of Holmes’ day. He returned home shortly after lunch, declined any offer of food and went straight up to his apartment two stairs at a time. She listened to him pacing as she had her afternoon tea. At five to four a gunshot from his rooms made her drop the plate she was holding and run up the stairs.

The door to his apartment was open, as usual, and he was standing there in the dressing gown he favoured during the winter months, belt tied, worn over the shirt and trousers he’d been wearing earlier. The gun was still in his hand and he stared at her intently.

There was a hole in the living room wall. The wallpaper was ruined.

“What... what on Earth are you doing?”

“An experiment.”

“I’d better call the police and tell them—”

“No need, I forewarned them.” Holmes didn’t take his eyes off her.

“I wish you had forewarned me. It would at least be polite.”

“I suppose you’ll want me to leave.”

Her heart, only just settling down, raced again. “What? No, of course not. I’ll get the damage repaired. It’ll come out of your deposit, that’s all.”

His frown chilled her. “Is there something else you wanted?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. I shall leave you to your experiments.”

“Oh, they’re all done for today. Send Watson straight up when she comes.”

By the time Watson arrived, Mrs. Hudson was calm again. Sherlock had been doing silly things for years now. She had to just accept it was part of who he was.

Watson was rosy-cheeked and cheerful, giving her a smile before dashing up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson prepared the tea tray. Her macaroons looked splendid in a star formation on the dainty plate. She carried it upstairs, hoping that the breakthrough Holmes had made was what everyone hoped for.

“Holmes, you’re teasing me,” Watson said as Mrs. Hudson arrived. “I didn’t rush here from the surgery in that awful rain just to have you ask me questions to make me seem stupid.”

“Very well,” Holmes replied from his favourite spot at the window. “Do you recall how I first discovered Moriarty was behind some of the most notorious crimes of the decade?”

Watson’s fingers were waggling over the tea tray as she decided which morsel to try first. “I don’t think you ever told me.”

Mrs. Hudson poured the tea, keeping her eyes studiously upon the task.

“I received a letter,” Holmes said. “But...” When he didn’t speak, she risked a glance at him. Holmes was tapping a finger over his mouth as he looked up at the ceiling. “I think, perhaps, there is a better place to start than the beginning. Mrs. Hudson?”