Pecunia non olet – Part 10

Harriet:

I was frantically waiting for Sherlock as it was already past two and he had said he would be back around lunch. I dearly hoped he meant lunch today…

When the doorbell rang, Martha went to open and for a second I thought Miranda Hannigan was visiting again, till I realised it was the maids raised voice and not Miss Hannigan's.

"What do you think you are doing here, coming to the front door?" she scolded.

"I just..." I heard a raspy male voice speak, almost pleadingly. The man sounded tired and somewhat familiar.

"You just? You just! No, we don't have work for you here. You'll have to go and try your luck elsewhere."

"I just forgot my..." he tried again, but once more was cut short impatiently.

"And I have just told you, we do not need your services. Now, go!"

"Martha, what is going on?" I enquired from the back of the house, annoyed by this interruption as I was busy preparing a few last things before setting off towards Baker Street in the hopes of finding my husband there.

Sighing dramatically she answered me: "There is a chap out here wanting to come in, though I have told him we have no use for him here."

Wiping my hands on my apron I briskly walked towards the front door and was met with the sight of a shabby looking man in his work clothes, who could do with a good wash. His face was almost unrecognisable underneath all the grime, but his bright grey eyes though sparkled in suppressed amusement. It was then I recognised my husband and stifling a laugh I came to his rescue.

"Martha, I actually have great use for this man, believe it or not. As it is, I have already been waiting for him. Come in, Sherlock."

"Finally!" he sighed, shivering in his damp clothing. "I forgot my keys at Baker Street."

The girl stared at him in disbelieve, mouth open and a deep blush spreading across her face.

"Never mind, Martha," Sherlock grinned, casting a glance at himself in the mirror. His face was encrusted with dirt and he was smelling strongly of horse manure. "I would not have recognised me either. I am relieved though, that at least my wife knew me."

"I would recognise you anywhere," I said off hand, even though with his acting skills I was a lot less sure than I let on.

"So, would you?" Sherlock Holmes sneezed then grinned and cupped my chin affectionately, "I'll take up the challenge."

"Have you also taken up the challenge to organise the keys for the Watson's?"

"It was not a challenge. I have them anyway. The good doctor left a set of spares with me years ago and as far as I am aware there has not been a change of locks – so all we need to do when we pick up Mrs Hudson at Baker Street, is to open my desk drawer and take them out."

"You are impossible!" I sighed, shaking my head as I had seriously worried he might forget about something this profane.

"I know – impossibly dirty..." and bending over he kissed the tip of my nose. "And impossibly late. I'll wash quickly and get changed and then you can dispose of me with whatever needs to be done still."

xxx

We arrived about two hours before the couple was expected to return and while Mrs Hudson had prepared the food, I had taken care of a few other things, like fresh flowers, a new shrug and a decent blend of tea, as Mrs Hudson had told me, Mrs Watson liked a good cuppa.

We worked on busily, Sherlock bringing up the coal and lighting the fires, me closing the curtains, preparing a hot water bottle, arranging the flowers, laying the table and making a pot of tea, while Mrs Hudson reigned in the kitchen and had the dinner just about ready when a carriage stopped at the front door.

Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and I slipped out through the back door just in time to hear the Watson's come into the house and give a surprised start. We then climbed the not quite low garden wall with the help of a rope ladder, my husband was wise enough to organise and hurried back to Baker Street with a giggle regarding us ladies and a sneeze regarding my spouse, all of us sure we had given our friends a pleasant surprise. - And the letter we received the next morning proved it. It was from Mary Watson and went as follows:

To the inhabitants of 221 B Baker Street – no, this is too formal, I suppose, it will not do! So I better cross it out and start again. - To the best friends in the world – there, this is better,

I want to thank you dearly for all you have done for us. It was a lovely surprise upon coming home to actually find it a home. A warm comfortable place with tea and dinner waiting and the fires warming the house. I was dreading coming back only to find an empty shell, the grates cold and empty and then having to go out for dinner again, even though I am not quite ready to go out into society just yet. My condition still makes me feel uneasy in public. I dread the compassionate glances and hushed voices.

But instead of my fears coming true, there seemed to have been a puck at work, taking care of all of those things that make one feel welcome and comfortable. John was as surprised as I was and just as happy.

Please, you must all do us the honour of dining with us next Saturday, when John and I have settled again and the nurse and maid have picked up their work and we will be in a position to treat you and pay back some of the kindness you have shown to us today.

I also have to admit, that I am very eager to meet Mrs Holmes at last, as I have heard so much about her.

Yours sincerely

Mary Watson

xxx

"Well, I am glad this went well," I said when I had finished reading the epistle over breakfast. "What are we going to do about Miss Hannigan though?"

"I am sorry, I completely forgot to tell you about my adventures last night." was Sherlock's contrite answer as he blew his nose with his already crumpled handkerchief.

Last night we had gone to bed early and he had all but passed out, sporting a light temperature. This morning his cold seemed to have worsened considerably and I was sure that for the next few days I would have a patient at home who needed taking good care of. But I could not leave Miranda Hannigan to fend for herself either. She needed help also and desperately.

"And you are sure that they are the ones responsible?" I gasped, as my poor darling had finished the tale of his adventures the previous day – which also seemed to account for his dismal state of health.

"Yes, at least for duping Walters."

"But why?" I was hard-pressed to believe, that two people seemingly well off, would do such a thing for a sport.

"No, of course, it is not for a sport. What was so special about the Trenton fortune?"

"Of course, the jewels!" I gasped, resisting the urge to slap my palm against my forehead.

"It was not that they needed it, but they wanted them nonetheless. Many people have sold their soul to get at the one or other precious stone and Mr and Mrs Southerton are no exception." he croaked sarcastically.

"But why use Miranda's identity?"

"She is an heiress, without proper protection and lived only a bit down the road. Assuming her identity was convenient, especially as she rarely ventures out into society. As a matter of fact, you erred with the address – it was not Miss Hannigan's Walters has written down, but the Southerton's. They live in 77 Chepstow Villas and Miss Hannigan in 72 – But, if one does not write very neat, the house number could look quite similar, so you have a good excuse." he teased. "I doubt the number had any significance though. It might just be one of the life's little ironies that they can look this similar if written in a haste."

"Do you think they are now blackmailing Miranda?" I wondered.

"I am not sure, but I think not. They wanted the jewels, not more money. Money they have themselves. But someone does blackmail her and I as yet have to find out who."

"It is odd, that after all, I find George Walters to be the lesser evil." I sighed, feeling Sherlock's temperature and decided that my husband would spend the rest of the day in bed. He was none too pleased.

xxx

Leaving my husband in bed, tucked in with a hot water bottle, I, on his request, made my way to see to our client. It was her footman who opened the door for me. He was a kind looking man, his eyes lively, though his face unassuming. He was as tall as my own husband, but not as lean and there was nothing really remarkable about him save his obviously gentle nature. But even as he opened and led me into the morning room, he seemed tense and it was explained a moment later when his mistress entered the room and flung her arms around me.

"Oh Mrs Holmes, I am so scared! I have received yet another letter this morning, containing the demands the blackmailer has. It is such a huge sum of money, how am I to pay it?"

Again she searched her pockets for the letter only to find it on her writing desk, where it lay crumpled right in the middle of it. Asking for the first letter I compared both and determined that they had the same author. That was at least something, even though at this point it did not help. At any rate, Miss Hannigan was right, the demand was outrageous and I wondered if the writer had any idea about monetary matters. Miranda Hannigan was wealthy and well situated, but she was not heiress to an estate or a business. Her money was secured in an investment and what she drew per annum was a considerable sum, but not remotely in the realms of thirty thousand Pounds Sterling. It was the end of the year and after all the bills had been paid, I doubted that what was left to her disposal exceeded a couple of hundred Pounds.

Stuffing the note back into its envelope I caught sight of something interesting. My husband had already told me more than once, that the envelope was as important than the letter itself and he had been fairly cross, when the first letter had been brought to him, without it. This time, the envelope was still there and it was lucky.

In this instance, the writer had made the very same mistake that I had made regarding the address. It actually bore the addresses of the Southerton's. There, decidedly more clearly written than Walters had done was the 77 instead of the correct 72. A good postman would not have been bothered by the mistake delivering the letter to the right addressee anyway. So, who was to be blackmailed? Miranda Hannigan or Mrs Southerton posing as her? Or did it not matter to the blackguard?

Spending another twenty minutes drinking tea with the despaired woman I took a cab and went back to Baker Street, where, unsurprisingly, I found my husband out of bed and instead of sitting in front of the fire reading through the stack of newspapers which Tom seemed to have organised for him.

Scurrying in with a freshly filled coal scuttle the boy looked at me apologetically, before putting the heavy thing down and greeting me properly.

"Thank you, Tom." I smiled. "Could you perhaps get us a pot of tea as well?"

"Sure, madam," he said eagerly and left quickly.

"We'll have to continue with his lessons..." I mumbled as I took off my coat and hat and hung them onto the peg next to the door.

"Yes, we really should." was the croaked reply of my husband, who had lowered his paper when he had heard me speak to our page. "Have you found something, my dear?"

"I just might, Sherlock."

Having taken the letter I pulled it out of my bag and showed it to him.

"You are getting more observant by the day, Hattie. You are right, all of a sudden it seems that by accident the real Miss Hannigan has received a letter that was originally meant for the false Miss Hannigan. The sum is extraordinary as well, I have to agree. You would not have an idea what sum the lady has at her disposal annually?"

"I dare say it may well be triple to five times the sum I draw from what my father has left me to secure my future, which in her case will add up to around three- to five thousand Pounds each year."

"That is a substantial sum indeed. But you are right, it hardly leaves her in the position to pay approximately ten times her annual income."

As Tom had re-appeared with our tea, I poured each of us a cup and sat down opposite of him.

"Do you think George Walters could be the blackmailer after all?" I at long last broke the silence, which had unfurled.

"No, I don't. My head is aching. I am the most useless creature when ill, I am afraid." my sick husband sighed, while it was obvious that his fever, that he claimed had somewhat ceased while I was away, returned with a vengeance. He was decidedly burning up and I ushered him into bed once more, resolving, that if in an hour he was still as feverish and hot as he was right now, I would resort to cooling him and apply cold leg compresses.