Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories, The Final Problem and The Empty House.

Part 2: Home

Nor need we power or splendor, wide hall or lordly dome;
The good, the true, the tender -- these form the wealth of home.

--Sarah J. Hale

"I do wish Mr. 'olmes would hurry back," Billy said one drizzly morning early in May.

Mrs. Hudson had set him to polishing the silver while she tidied the pantry, and she glanced back at him over her shoulder. "I should think you would welcome the chance to rest a bit," she remarked, "what with Mr. Holmes sending you all over Christendom at all hours of the day and night."

"That's just it, mum! There's always something exciting going on when Mr. 'olmes is on a case. Since he's been away it's just been so…so boring," Billy fretted, pent-up energy lending him a renewed vigor as he attacked a stubborn bit of tarnish with a smudged rag.

"The next time you lack excitement, Master William, remind me to send you up with the tray when Mr. Holmes is busy putting bullet pocks in the plaster." She turned in time to see Billy's eyes go round as saucers, and she chuckled. "Don't you worry, laddie. He'll be back soon enough, and if I know Mr. Holmes, adventure will be following close behind him."

It had indeed been very quiet without her bachelor tenant, she thought, turning back to the tins and boxes, and for a while it had been a mercy not to have to traipse up and down the stairs ten times a day. However, as the days went on, she found she could not wholly disagree with Billy's complaint; there was something almost forlorn about the room without the presence of its master, and she did not linger there except to deliver the daily post.

Mrs. Hudson sighed softly, remembering how the house had stood so empty and silent after her husband's death. She remembered, too, how reluctant she had been to take in lodgers, but her financial situation had soon rendered that question academic. One morning not long after she had put the advertisement in the paper, she had answered the bell to find a neatly dressed young man standing on the doorstep.

"Good morning, madam," the young man said politely, tipping his smart felt hat to her. "Are you Mrs. Jane Hudson?"

"I am. And you are…?"

A smile creased his lean face. "My name is Holmes—Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I saw your advertisement in the newspaper for rooms to let. I apologize for not making an appointment, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I might inquire directly."

He seemed a quiet, studious sort, with eyes as grey as the fog on the coast of her native Scotland, and she found herself taking an immediate liking to him. "Of course," she replied. "The rooms are on the first floor, if you'd like to have a look 'round."

A few moments later, they were standing at the door to the study. "This was my late husband's study," she explained, unlocking the door with a tasseled iron key. "The bedroom just beyond was also his, as he sometimes kept late hours when he was working." She swung open the door. "There you are. I'm afraid the furniture is mostly odds and ends, but they're all of the best quality."

"After you, madam." The young man gestured for her to go in ahead of him, and then followed her into the room. His grey gaze darted from corner to corner, taking in all the dimensions of the light-filled space. "Yes," he said under his breath. "Yes, it will do nicely indeed." He whipped around to face her with a broad smile. "If it pleases you, madam, I will take it." His happy expression melted slightly. "However…such a charming castle must command a princely sum."

Reminding herself that the rent would make up what her husband's pension did not, she boldly named her price. She knew it was slightly more than some of the other landlords in the area charged, but she had resolved herself to standing firm.

He stood silent for a moment after her announcement, then brought out a pocket watch and read the time. He replaced the watch in his waistcoat pocket, and turned to her with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "I wonder, madam, if it would not be too much of an imposition if I could have the rest of today to think about it? Of course, if you find someone who will put the money in your hand between now and then, you have only to send word and I will once again take up my quest."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Where may I reach you?"

He took a silver card case from his inside coat pocket. "You can send word to me care of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I am working in the lab there at present." He handed her the card so she could clearly read 'Sherlock Holmes, Esq.' printed in elegant black type on the thin white cardboard.

Mrs. Hudson took the card from his gloved fingers. "You are a medical student, then, Mr. Holmes?"

Amusement flickered across his lean features. "I must be, since an established doctor could no doubt afford your price without hesitation," he murmured, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "Was that your line of thinking, madam?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, I meant no insult by it—"

He held up a hand, cutting her off in mid-sentence. "None taken, dear lady, I assure you." He smiled and pocketed his card case. "I have been known to answer to the description of a medical student, but in truth I am not. I prefer to classify myself as a student of life." He tipped his hat to her. "Good day to you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good day, Mr. Holmes."

With regret welling in her heart, she saw him out. Much to her surprise, he stopped dead in his tracks halfway down the street, and she watched in curiosity as he stepped back to look up at the building. He stayed in that posture for several seconds, and then a wide grin spread slowly across his face. He jogged back to where she stood in wonderment on the stoop.

"Mrs. Hudson," he blurted, grey eyes alight. "Would I be correct in saying that you are also in possession of the third floor of this building?"

"Yes, but it's only two rooms. I do a little sewing, and I keep my machine and my dressmakers' forms in the larger room. The other I have used in the past as a guest room, but as it's on the top floor I'm afraid it's not a very welcoming one."

If he had heard her concerns, he showed no sign. "Madam, I thank you. Now there is no doubt in my mind that I shall see you very soon. Au revoir."

Deep within happy memories, Mrs. Hudson chuckled to herself. No one else had answered the advertisement, and so it was that Mr. Holmes called again the next day—this time, accompanied by a young man with a tanned face and a pronounced limp.

"Mrs. Hudson," said Mr. Holmes with a nod toward his shorter companion, "may I present Dr. John Watson, late of Her Majesty's Army by way of Afghanistan and India. Watson, this is Mrs. Hudson, the gracious and charming landlady of 221B Baker Street."

The young doctor smiled behind his neatly trimmed mustache, revealing waves of sandy hair as he tipped his stylish bowler hat to her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," he said, his blue eyes bright and clear. "I came to hear about Holmes'…ah, predicament… through a mutual acquaintance." He glanced at his partner in crime, who shrugged. "I should very much like to see the room on the third floor; Holmes tells me it's quite cosy."

She looked at them for a moment. The doctor had a kind spirit, she could see that much right now, but there was a glint in Mr. Holmes' grey eyes that spoke of one who easily encouraged another into mischief. Mrs. Hudson smiled inwardly; God alone knew what was in store for all of them should she let these two under her roof, but it would most likely never be dull. Before she could answer, Dr. Watson's gaze flicked to that of his friend in silent communication.

"Think of it, Mrs. Hudson!" Mr. Holmes enthused. "You shall have your price and perhaps a trifle more, as I believe Her Majesty is still inclined to look after the welfare of those wounded in her service." His eyes glittered in triumph. "Are we all agreed, then?"

With that, the matter was settled. Dr. Watson had a meager amount of luggage and was able to move in that afternoon, but Mr. Holmes—and his jumble of trunks and portmanteaus—were delayed until the next day.

Starting on another section of the cluttered closet, Mrs. Hudson let her mind drift back to those first few months after Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq. and Dr. John Watson took possession of the rooms at 221-B. She found that her lodgers immediately filled the shelves with an extraordinary collection of books, but she greeted the chemistry setup—particularly the Bunsen burner—with not a little dismay. When she was duly reassured that every precaution would be taken against fire, she reluctantly agreed to let the jumble of glass tubing occupy the corner nearest the window. However, adjusting to a strange assortment of furnishings had been an easy task compared to adjusting to the different facets of Mr. Holmes' personality.

One evening, she was just about to turn down the lights when she heard violin music emanating from her newly rented rooms. She ascended the stairs, intending to say goodnight and to see if there was anything either of her new tenants needed before she went to bed, and to her surprise the door was ajar. She raised her hand to knock, but the music stopped immediately.

"Come in, Mrs. Hudson."

She did as he bade. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes. I was just about to turn in and I thought I'd come in and see if you or the doctor needed anything."

Her tenant, who had been reclining on the sofa in worn brown velvet slippers, a grayish-brown dressing gown and gray trousers, removed the violin from under his chin and sat up. "That's kind of you, Mrs. Hudson, but Watson is already abed and I am perfectly content to 'scrape carelessly' on my violin, as he so fondly refers to my musical efforts." He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, which did nothing to hide the fond grin that flit over his face when he mentioned his fellow lodger.

"Well, I thought it was lovely." Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes." She turned to go.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."

At the door, she paused and turned to see him with the bow poised above the strings. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"I'm very curious to know--how on earth did you know it was I?"

He flashed a charming grin. "I have noted how your footsteps sound when you come up the stairs," he said, with a twinkle in his fog-grey eyes. "You always pause just slightly on the tenth step. Perhaps that is where you and the late Mr. Hudson always said your goodnights?"

She realized he must have misread the astonishment on her face, for his countenance darkened as he hurried to set aside the violin and bow. "That was thoughtless of me," he murmured, rising with catlike grace to stand before her. "I did not intend to remind you of your grief, dear lady."

She smiled up at him. "No, Mr. Holmes, you did nothing wrong. The memories are now but bittersweet. Though I wonder—how did you ever guess? It's as if you read my mind."

He returned her smile, albeit a trifle sadly. "There is no light at that point on the stairs, so you could not have stopped to turn down a lamp. There is no vantage point to any window, so that could not be the reason, either. No, for you to stop on that step every time on your way up without fail must have some other significance, and since you told me this room used to be your husband's study—and my room, his personal chamber—I came to my ultimate conclusion with no guesswork involved at all."

Looking back, it really had come as no surprise that Mr. Holmes eventually put his talents to use in a reasonably gainful method of employment, and it was even less of a surprise that Dr. Watson joined in these efforts. Invariably, such goings-on brought a cast of varied characters around to her formerly quiet door, and Mrs. Hudson smiled in fond remembrance of her first encounter with one such character.

One evening, a short, sallow-skinned man with a sharp, rat-like face called at the house, one of Mr. Holmes' cards clutched in his thin fingers.

"Good evening, ma'am," the little man had said, tipping his hat. "Is Mr. Holmes in?"

Something about the man put her on edge, and she kept her hand on the doorknob. "Who may I say is calling?" she asked.

"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, on a matter of serious police business. It's most urgent that I speak with him."

She squared her shoulders and raised her chin slightly. "Is Mr. Holmes in some sort of trouble, Inspector?"

Lestrade let out a high, tinny laugh. "Oh, no, ma'am! It's just that Mr. Holmes has helped us out once or twice, and I ran across something the other day that might interest him."

It had been quite late when she let Lestrade out into the foggy night, but as she cleared the dishes the next morning, Mr. Holmes did his best to reassure her.

"I have assisted Inspector Lestrade with several particularly trying problems as of late," said the amateur detective, while the corners of his sandy-haired shadow's blue eyes crinkled in amusement. "No doubt you'll be seeing quite a lot of him, Mrs. Hudson." Her lodgers shared a hearty laugh at this, and they were still chuckling to themselves when she left to take the tray downstairs.

Lestrade was not the only one to avail themselves of Mr. Holmes' services, and the waves of humanity that had washed up on her doorstep were of the vast variety of life in a great metropolis. High-born ladies and gentlemen, rough laborers and women of questionable morals—all seemed to know that the address of the highest court of appeal for their particular problem was the first-floor sitting room of 221-B Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson laughed silently to herself; Dr. Watson had not been the only one pressed hastily into service over the years. Many a night had seen her bustling down to the telegraph office on the corner, thrilling at the thought that a human life was to be saved—or ended in a swift fall of justice—by the words on the hastily scribbled note clutched in her hand. Then there was the small army of raggedy boys—the 'Irregulars' as Mr. Holmes called them—who were often dispatched to seek out some infamous person or bit of lurid gossip at the behest of their gray-eyed commander-in-chief, and their assistance often proved quite timely in many of Mr. Holmes' cases.

It was at the end of one of those cases that Dr. Watson, bursting with pride and happiness, announced he was to be married. Mrs. Hudson remembered Miss Morstan, and was delighted to hear of how the young lady charmed Dr. Watson with her pluck and spirit under the most trying of circumstances. While overjoyed for the doctor and his bride-to-be, Mrs. Hudson worried how the news would affect her other tenant, whose misogynist attitude was already legendary. Indeed, the spring weather that had lightly turned Dr. Watson's fancy to thoughts of love only seemed to inspire his friend to staunchly remain a bachelor.

It was a lovely Sunday afternoon, but Sherlock Holmes had stayed indoors all day in his dressing-gown and slippers. With a bounce in his step and a dreamy smile upon his face, Dr. Watson went to meet his fiancée for a stroll in the park, leaving his friend to brood. As Mrs. Hudson cleared away the barely-touched tea, she darted a glance at the detective, and a frown creased her brow as she watched him puffing away on his pipe. The yellow-gray clouds that wreathed his head filled the room with a distorting haze.

"It's wonderful to see the good doctor in such high spirits," she mused into the smoky silence. "His young lady is so kind and gentle—aye, they're lucky to have found each other! Don't you think so, Mr. Holmes?"

"Hnnn."

She folded the napkin he had carelessly tossed over his teacup. "I remember when my Matthew used to call for me of a Sunday afternoon. Makes one wistful for simpler days."

"Present company excepted, women only complicate matters," drawled the man slumped in the chair. "I would have thought our lives were complicated enough without the addition of the female of the species to the equation." He sank deeper into the chair. "Apparently not."

Mrs. Hudson suppressed a sigh. "Surely that won't keep you from the wedding, will it, Mr. Holmes? After all, Dr. Watson asked you to be his best man. You wouldn't shirk that duty, would you?"

The reluctant best man raised his head just enough to fix her with a half-lidded gray gaze. "Mrs. Hudson," he began in a piquant tone, "I am quite capable of leaving off my personal views for a time to put on the requisite morning-coat. Since you are so enthusiastic to see me wear that particular garment, I shall therefore enlist you to see that it is cleaned. The doctor and I may have a difference of opinion where women are concerned, but I would not risk overwhelming his bride with the smell of camphor."

The blackest day had come when Dr. Watson had readied his belongings to move to where he and his bride would set up housekeeping in Paddington, and Mrs. Hudson remembered well the emotion played out on that bittersweet afternoon.

"Well, I'm all set," Dr. Watson said with a too-bright smile. His friend lingered at the window, pipe in hand and his face turned toward the street. Mrs. Hudson tied the twine on the last bundle of medical texts and placed the books with their fellows on top of a battered steamer trunk. The front bell clanged, and Dr. Watson threw a pained look at the silent detective.

It did not take extraordinary powers of deduction to know that the two old comrades needed a moment to themselves. "I'll get that. No doubt it's the moving men," Mrs. Hudson said, and bustled downstairs. When she returned a few minutes later, the tension in the room had lessened considerably, and Dr. Watson stood aside to let the movers pick up the trunks and crates.

"Careful with that one," he warned as they shouldered a crate marked FRAGILE. "It contains sensitive medical equipment." After seeing to the crate's safe departure down the seventeen steps, Dr. Watson turned to Mrs. Hudson and kissed her cheek.

"I'll be 'round to check on you both, so I won't say goodbye—merely 'farewell' until we meet again." He grinned at her, and she did her best to smile. "Holmes, I trust you won't give this dear lady any trouble in my absence."

His friend looked worn, but his expression was one of kind indulgence. "No more than usual, I assure you."

Dr. Watson raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that's what I'm afraid of."

Behind her, Billy began to whistle a haunting, melancholy tune her tenant had often played on the violin, and the eerie music sent a cold chill down her spine. The music only served to underline the uneasiness she had not been able to shake since her longtime lodger had left a week ago Friday. She shuddered, remembering the man who had called on Mr. Holmes that morning.

The man was tall and pale and thin, but where leanness on Mr. Holmes suggested a highly trained greyhound ready for the gun, it gave a mean, pinched look to the man standing on the doorstep.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes in today, madam?" His words were pleasant enough as he doffed his high silk hat to her, but it seemed as if his steel-grey gaze pierced her very soul. "I must speak with him urgently."

"Yes," she heard herself say. "However, he is just returned from a long journey and I do not think he is receiving—"

The man's features betrayed no emotion, but he shoved her aside with an arm of iron.

Gasping in shock, she turned just in time to see the man's rounded back as he strode up the stairwell to the first landing. Finally, she found her voice. "But you cannot go up there, sir!" She protested loudly, hoping her shrill warning would reach Mr. Holmes.

The grim-faced man made no reply, but turned back to look at her over one rounded shoulder. He shook his head slowly from side to side, reminding her of a cobra ready to strike. Landlady and intruder glowered at each other for a moment, and then the man entered the study without incident and closed the door behind him.

She tried to tell herself it was foolish to worry; surely Mr. Holmes had faced greater dangers on the streets of London than anything presented in his own sitting room. However, Mrs. Hudson could not bring herself to move, and she stood at the foot of the stairs, listening intently for any sound of trouble.

She was still standing there five minutes later when suddenly the door to the sitting room flew open. The older man stormed through the door, his features twisted into a mask of hate, and Mrs. Hudson felt her blood turn to ice. Had she unwittingly answered the ring of someone who wished revenge upon Mr. Holmes? With a dozen terrible scenarios flashing through her mind, she was about to run for the nearest policeman when she heard her tenant's voice.

"You have paid me several compliments, Mr. Moriarty," snapped Mr. Holmes. "Let me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the former eventuality I would, in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept the latter."

The stoop-shouldered man stiffened in anger. "I can promise you the one," he snarled, "but not the other!" He slammed the door hard enough to shake the house, and Mrs. Hudson gave the man a wide berth as she opened the front door. The man exited the house without looking back, and Mrs. Hudson shut the door as soon as he was over the threshold.

Shortly thereafter, Mr. Holmes had descended the stairs, looking for all the world like a gentleman going about his daily business, but she noticed the pinched look around the bridge of his fine aristocratic nose. Something tore at her to remember him on that morning—pale and yet handsome in his way, tall and lean in his smart black suit, with his silk hat shining from its perch on his brilliantine hair.

"I've business in town today, Mrs. Hudson," he called, swinging his silver-topped cane gently from his gloved fingers. "In all probability, I won't be back until well after teatime."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes." She saw him out, wiping her hands on her apron. "You take care out on those mean streets."

He turned sharply and flashed a smile at her, then turned back just as quickly and disappeared into the bustle of Baker Street.

In truth, she had not been surprised when he did not come home in time for supper. It was not unusual for him to come and go at all hours—the years of his and Dr. Watson's adventures had taught her that—but on that night, she could not settle back into her chair.

The book she had been reading suddenly seemed to be full of vapid prose, and she clapped it shut in frustration. Her knitting was an exercise in tedium, solitaire an endless drudge, and so she decided to take herself off to bed.

She knocked gently on Billy's door, ready to confiscate his book and insist he put out his light, but the boy was already asleep, his lamp dark and his book lying closed beside it. With a final glance at the window and a mental notation of the doors and windows she had fastened earlier that evening, Mrs. Hudson climbed into bed and put out her lamp.

She had been dreaming of chasing Mr. Holmes through a thick, wet fog when a sharp echo of sound jolted her awake. What was that noise? She wondered, sitting up. She was listening so intently that she nearly jumped out of her skin when someone tapped at her door.

"Missus!" It was Billy, and her heart slowed a fraction. "I heard a noise, mum—upstairs, in Mr. 'olmes' room!"

Mrs. Hudson pulled on her dressing gown, struck a light, and joined Billy in her sitting room. "I heard it too," she breathed.

Billy shook his head gravely. "I don't think it were Mr. 'olmes neither."

The feeling of restless dread she had felt earlier in the evening came back fourfold. "He wouldn't—"

Her words ended abruptly in a cough as something tickled at the back of her throat, and Billy sneezed. Landlady and errand boy exchanged a horrified glance, and they hurried out of the flat and into the foyer.

A thin waterfall of grey smoke was tumbling down the stairs from under the door to the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson turned on her heel and raced back to get the pitcher of water from her washstand while Billy tore open the front door.

"FIRE!" he bellowed, his voice a whipcrack of authority that belied his young years. "FIRE! FIRE!"

Through the roaring in her ears, Mrs. Hudson vaguely heard the call repeated from a dozen windows. She gathered up her skirts and ran as fast as she dared up to the landing, trying not to slosh all the water out of her pitcher as she went. Pulling a fold of her dressing gown over her nose, she opened the door and charged into the smoky room.

The window blind was in two curled-edge swags, set ablaze by a rag-wrapped brick that had made a jagged mess of the far window. The brick had come to rest on the desk and bits of the burning rag were spreading tongues of flame into a sheaf of papers, but the fire died a smoldering death as she slung a sparkling curve of water on the burning paper. She doused the blinds with the rest of the water, and then tossed the pitcher through the window with a cacophonous crash. The reek of charred paper was everywhere, and the room spun dizzily as she forced herself to breathe great gulps of fresh air.

Then the fire brigade—sturdy lads in blue with gold helmets—was upon her, and suddenly she found herself lying on Mr. Holmes' bed.

"Are you all right, mum?" One of the uniformed men crouched down beside her, looking intently into her face. "The smoke must have gotten to you, there for just a minute." He helped her to sit up and put a glass containing a finger's-worth of brandy in her hand. "Drink that down, mum. It'll do you good."

Stunned past any protest, she did so. "What happened?" She asked breathlessly, her throat scorched by brandy as well as smoke.

"Someone's idea of a prank," said one of the other firemen, coming over with a blackened brick that dripped sooty water. "One that'll land the blackguard in the dock for arson— if he's ever caught, that is."

Billy appeared at the doorway, relief written across his face. "You're all right, mum?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm all right, though I can't say the same for the window, or Mr. Holmes' papers." The fire fighter who had given her the brandy helped her to stand and guided her into the sitting room. She watched in dread fascination as the rest of the fire brigade cleaned up the burned papers and ripped down the damaged blinds. Inexplicably, the face of the stoop-shouldered man flashed in her mind's eye. "Something tells me, gentlemen," she murmured, "that you will never catch the rascal that set it."

"Leave that to me," said a familiar voice, and Mrs. Hudson turned to see Inspector Lestrade standing in the doorway, his dark eyes glittering like obsidian in his sallow face.

Mr. Holmes did not return the next day, and the night after the fire found Mrs. Hudson once again unable to concentrate on her book or her needlework. Rising from her chair, she went into her room and pulled open the bottom drawer of her bureau. Pushing aside the linens in the drawer, she brought out a smoothly polished wood box and set it on the dressing table. Without hesitation, she opened the box to reveal her husband's revolver, and she boldly seized the weapon from its nest of worn red velvet. Years before, Matthew had taken her out to a country lane and showed her how to load the gun, and a frisson of dread shivered up her arm as she remembered the jarring kick the weapon had made in her hand.

Thus armed, Jane Hudson kept vigil in her sitting room until dawn streaked the sky.

The sound of the front bell was the call to action, making her abandon the disturbing memories. Billy jumped to his feet with a glad cry. "I'll get it!" he crowed, tossing his blackened rag on the table.

"You go on with your polishing, laddie," Mrs. Hudson instructed, much to the boy's chagrin. "I'll see to the door."

"Aw," Billy complained, but he resumed his task as Mrs. Hudson left the kitchen. She opened the door to find a liveried telegram delivery boy waiting on the step.

The boy handed over the small yellow envelope in exchange for her few bits of silver, then tugged at his cap and was on his way again. Mrs. Hudson slipped the telegram into the front pocket of her apron and bent down to retrieve the morning paper from the front stoop. As usual, she took both paper and telegram up the stairs to the cheerfully cluttered room and laid them on the growing pile of mail and newsprint weighing down the deal table. As she laid aside the paper, she noticed that the headline was printed in large, black block letters: –LMES

Mrs. Hudson's heart gave a great thud in her chest, and her skin crawled with icy prickles of dread. With trembling hands, she lifted the paper and spread it out so the entire headline was visible.

SHERLOCK HOLMES DEAD

GREAT DETECTIVE LOST IN RAGING WATERFALL

"Oh, no," she breathed, sinking slowly to one of the straight-backed chairs. Her hand fell against her apron pocket, and she glanced down through tear-blurred vision as something crackled under her hand. The telegram! She brought it out and turned it over, only to find it was not addressed to Mr. Holmes, as she had originally assumed, but to herself.

Moving to the mantel as she had seen Holmes do time and again, Mrs. Hudson retrieved the wickedly sharp jackknife and slit open the yellow envelope. Replacing the knife, she pulled the telegram from its confines and read the few scant lines.

MEIRINGEN VILLAGE

SWITZERLAND

5 MAY

MRS HUDSON STOP TERRIBLE TRAGEDY STOP HOLMES LOST OVER REICHENBACH FALLS YESTERDAY STOP WILL BE STAYING FOR INQUEST STOP WILL RETURN AS SOON AS AM ABLE STOPAM TELEGRAPHING MYCROFT STOP FOLLOW HIS INSTRUCTIONS STOP J WATSON END

She read the words over twice to fix the details in her mind, then carefully folded the paper back into its envelope and slipped it back into her apron. Standing shakily to her feet, she wandered to the middle of the room and brushed her fingertips against the smooth wood frame of the wicker-backed easy chair. She lingered for some moments, her hands plumping by habit the worn velvet cushion that rested against the hard woven chair back. Slowly, she walked to the bedroom doorway and let her gaze touch each of the familiar things in turn.

A bright gleam caught her attention, and she was startled to see her own grieving face reflected in the shaving mirror on the dressing table. Pulling her handkerchief from her pocket, she draped the white square over the round frame.

The mouse-colored dressing gown hung on its peg by the door. Following an impulse she could not name, she gathered the fabric in her hands and buried her face in it. Even after a laundering and long weeks hanging unused, the garment still retained the scent of its owner, a mixture of shag tobacco and sandalwood soap.

Her hands still pressing the fabric to her face, Mrs. Hudson sank to the carpet, sobbing bitterly.