The House
Having an instinct for when things are not right, he lets himself into the ground floor flat and sees her slumped at the kitchen table, one hand to her forehead, the other gripping a sheet of high quality paper with the letterhead of a firm of London stockbrokers.
"I knew it was too good to be true," she says as she hears him come up behind her. "I knew Frank's investments were risky - just like him. And now all the money has gone overnight in the latest dodgy deal from his broker. No income left, no pension. I'm going to have to sell the house."
She sighs, looks round and tries a shaky smile. His reply is instant and reassuring.
"Don't worry, you'll be fine. You'll stay with the house as a sitting tenant. Shouldn't make any difference to you."
She doesn't believe him and looks back over her shoulder at him. Worried and at a loss.
"What will you do?" he asks. Feeling inadequate, unhelpful, lacking comfort and the ability to give aid.
"Get what money I can from the sale and invest it into something boring, something safe to boost my pension. And get a bedsit I suppose. No alternative at my age. I'll be fine.
She rubs his arm, as if to comfort him. Smiles reassuringly, being brave. He knows it, and there is nothing he could say.
"I'll contact the estate agent later today. Not to worry. I knew this cosy life was too good to be true and would have to end sooner or later."
He puts a hand briefly on her shoulder and goes away. He knows she expects nothing more from him.
The estate agent is pleasant, businesslike and pragmatic.
"It's a nice house in a sought after area, but it needs a lot of work, doesn't it? Two of the flats are damp and empty, and the other two in use are a bit run down. And you have a sitting tenant, which doesn't appeal to the market. But there's plenty of potential. Yes. I think I will be able to sell this for you quite easily."
Neither of them expect the house to be on the market for less than a day.
"….happy to buy sight unseen, Mrs Hudson, and for the asking price. To add to a property portfolio, I understand. No rush to hurry you out or anything like that. You are to take your time….."
She is businesslike in public, but upset in private. She had returned from a hectic and unhappy time living in America, and inheriting the elegant terraced house in central London from her husband when he died had been a lifeline and a new security. She had lived there for some years now - very happily.
Mrs Turner next door was sympathetic; There but for the grace of God, she said. Well, Martha could rent rooms from her any time she needed to. They were of an age, in similar life circumstances, and had become friends. It could all, Martha Hudson kept telling herself, and would until she believed it, be so much worse.
She does the paperwork, baffled and off balance at the speed of the sale; a sale concluded before she had even got used to the idea that 221B was even going to be offered for sale. Because she had wanted to live there, and hoped to die there. It was a very little ambition, after all.
But she tolerates the surveyor poking and prodding her house. And vague hopes that a mortgage for the purchaser would fall through did not happen, as it was to be a cash purchase. The agent and the solicitor keep her up to date with the process as it happens, and everything seems remarkably straightforward.
She passes all this news on to her tenant, and he pats her on the arm and makes sympathetic noises but was, as usual, a bit removed from it all. He was a lovely lad, but she was used to him never quite being on the same planet as everyone else.
The date for the finalisation of the sale comes and goes. Apparently, explains her solicitor patiently, the purchaser would be grateful if she would remain in occupation for the time being, keep the property warm and cared for, and not a target for squatters or burglars.
She does not understand such a reluctant and invisible new owner, but is happy to stay where she was for as long as possible - of course she is! - and relieved that she was never being bothered by anyone.
"You never know the other person's circumstances," her tenant soothes when she mentions it to him. "I am sure he likes the idea of the house staying safe and loved. And there is no rush to move into Mrs Turner's any sooner than you need to. Just go with the flow, Mrs Hudson," he advises.
Things seem to make a bit more sense when she learns that the new owner was not actually a person but a trust fund that was part of a family estate; something that sounds both distant from real life but also old fashioned and careful with it.
It is only when a large envelope arrives at her door full of official paperwork and turns out to be the new deeds to the house from the Land Registry Office that Mrs Hudson really starts to get frightened.
The paperwork is dated only two days beforehand. And yet her name is given as that of the owner. She knows she isn't that good at legal paperwork, but even she knows that is not right.
But her estate agent and her solicitor both tell her exactly the same thing when she telephones them - worries at them - for explanations. Yes, the paperwork is quite correct. Yes, it is unusual, but the gentleman who headed the family trust had been adamant her name should appear on the title deeds as the nominated agent on behalf of the trust.
Well, surely she knows who that is? Who the trust acts on behalf of? The connection is assumed as monies were being paid to you on behalf of the trust every month? Do you not realise that? Recognise the name?
Martha Hudson explains she did as much paperwork as she could by direct debit and suchlike; numbers and things like that bothered her, and as long as she knew she was not spending more than she was earning, and her bank statements rose a little each month, because her tenant paid his rent, she was happy. But she didn't think she had ever heard of the Sherrinford Trust, although she certainly recognises the name she is finally given. But only after quite a lot of nagging, and wittering, and explaining herself as a pathetic and worrier of an old woman, with no family to help her, no-one to call on - because it is hard you know, being an old age pensioner…..the solicitor's secretary finally got bored and told her the name behind the house purchase.
And even then had to repeat herself and spell the name out after Mrs Hudson drops the telephone in shock, then couldn't speak, then couldn't find a pen or a sheet of paper to write on….because old age and shock get you like that…..
"Sherlock!"
She keeps trying to catch him - at the front door, on the stairs - but he is permanently rushing out of the house, brushing past her muttering 'busy!' or 'appointment at Scotland Yard!' 'Can't stop -duty calls!' or the like. Finally, really angry and deeply puzzled, she stomps up the stairs to confront him in his first floor flat a soon as she hears him moving about upstairs before he had even thought about breakfast.
"You and I are due a conversation, young man!"
She stomps up the stairs - if such a frail and birdlike creature could be said to stomp - and bars the doorway, hands on hips and expression wary.
"Well? An explanation?"
Sherlock Holmes is in grey pyjamas and his second best maroon dressing gown and peering vaguely into the fridge hoping for inspiration. He turns and looks up at her from under his eyebrows, head low on his chest, hands tensed into fists, and suddenly then gives her his rare and wonderfully cheeky little boy grin. Which always makes her smile back, whether she is actually in the mood or not.
He shuts the fridge door and steps towards her.
"Hello Mrs Hudson. Problem?"
"Not exactly," she says slowly and firmly.
He looks at her silently for a long moment as she tilts her head and purses her lips at him. He recognises the problem at hand.
"This is your house" he says firmly. "Should remain your house. Regardless of your late husband and his propensity for dodgy deals. No reason for you to suffer from that and the after effects of it. Not again."
She nods silently, recognising the truth of his words. In America, many years ago, he had saved her life and her sanity and ensured her wicked, criminal, immoral husband got what he deserved; the electric chair. And when they had both returned to London he had done his very best to help her, settle her into her safe and comfortable life at 221B, Baker Street. And become her tenant.
"You should not have felt you had to help me. Not again. You have already done too much for me." she argues, touched, angry, close to tears.
"Nonsense!" he exclaims. His usual arrogant and haughty, dismissive self.
"I don't like change. I don't like my life disturbed. I am very happy here. The house suits my needs, and you are an admirable housekeeper….."
"Landlady," she corrects firmly.
"Landlady," he agrees. "I stand corrected. Not many housekeepers - " he puts an ironic stress on the word -"would provide an endless supply of scones and cakes and casseroles, answer my door, provide policemen with tea, calm hysterical clients, mop up the occasional drop of spilt blood, provide witch hazel and bandages and clear mouldy and growing things out of the fridge. As well as do my washing up, dusting and ironing. Oh yes, and provide early morning cups of tea. Where is mine this morning, by the way?"
She stamps her foot, very vexed, and he grins at her.
"This is your house. And it stays your house. I can afford to buy it. For you. Don't tell anyone, but I could afford to buy any house I wanted. I choose not to, because I want nothing for myself. Apart from good clothes I have few needs and really do not want to be trammeled with many possessions."
"Including a house?" she asks, incredulous.
"Including a house," he agrees. "Not even this house. It really is yours, and I cannot think of it belonging to anyone else. Don't tell anyone, but I really don't need money. My family are old money; so I have always had an income from a trust fund and only work because I need to. Not because I have to. Understand?"
"But how can I ever repay you, Sherlock? This is far too generous….."
"No it's not. It's selfish. I am very selfish. Now go away, Mrs Hudson. Make tea if you must. And don't mention it again."
She moves forward, trying to find words.
"Sherlock Holmes!" she finally explodes.
She snatches the skull off the mantelpiece and throws it at him. It bounces off his temple and falls onto the armchair. where it sits and grins at them.
Then she puts her arms around him, cups his face between her hands, and kisses the place where the bruise will be, and then his cheek.
"I am seriously wounded and damaged forever," he complains. He leans into her touch and kisses the top of her head. He has to bend down to do so.
"You are a horrible man, Sherlock Holmes."
She steps back and he stands and looks at her, not disagreeing. She thumps his arm with one tiny fist and turns to walk away.
"And don't forget the custard creams!" he shouts after her,
"I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper!" she shouts back. without turning round.
But she is grinning as she skips down the stairs. What else can anyone do when faced with a tall, grinning and very determined consulting detective?
END
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