The Adventure Of The Crimson Lady
Another case of me writing a particular story that I would like to read – but no one else has written…
Summary:
Not long after his return from the Great Hiatus, Holmes experiences one of his most baffling and dangerous cases with Watson. And for Watson, the stakes are… personal. Featuring TV's 'The Baker Street Boys', plus some more familiar ACD characters.
Themes: Horror. Drama. Friendship. Romance. 'M'
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Mary Watson
Author's Note:
The reader is invited to imagine Doctor Watson as played by David Burke, for the scenes set in the 1890s. When the story reaches the 1900s, Edward Hardwick becomes the face of Doctor Watson (both from the Granada TV productions of Sherlock Holmes).
Sherlock Holmes in this story should – of course – be imagined by the reader as being played by the best Sherlock Holmes actor of them all. Jeremy Brett…
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
PART ONE: THE INVESTIGATION
Chapter One:
A Case Too Close To Home
March 1903
Mr Sherlock Holmes was sat at the breakfast table in the sitting room of his lodgings at 221B Baker Street, reading through the local newspaper, with the fire crackling in the background – giving off a gentle heat. He had just finished off his plate of sausages, eggs, and buttered toast, and he was considering starting his first pipe of the day after failing to find the name of anyone of note in the obituaries section. The news, too, had failed to interest him – with the main article focused on another scandal involving a senior banking official.
Holmes had no cases to be working on, that day – and already he was starting to become restless.
He dropped the newspaper on Mrs Hudson's tablecloth and stared at the three other chairs at the table – which were all empty. He sighed.
"I miss your company, Watson. I hope that your sacrifice was worth it," Holmes spoke aloud, his expression peeved.
At the same time, he felt annoyed with himself. No, it was more than that. He felt…regret. Regret that he had let his life slip by. Never taken any opportunities to find a lady who he felt would stimulate both his mind and his heart. A woman who would be able to put up with him and his ingrained habits… Besides the long-suffering Mrs Hudson, of course. He briefly smirked.
Instead, for years, he had been in love with his work. And he had failed to maintain contact with his old friends, since becoming established at Baker Street.
There had been one woman who had intrigued him. Who could have been his intellectual match. But their time together had been brief. And, even without planning for it, he had attended her wedding. He had been in disguise at the time, mind…
Drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair, Holmes decided to look out of the window, pulling back one of the curtains. Underneath the brisk-moving grey clouds in the sky, the usual street life of Baker Street on that Thursday morning presented itself to his scrutinising gaze. Horse-drawn Hansoms wheeled by, whilst people of all classes and professions walked past the railings that separated 221B and the neighbouring houses from the pavement. Through the glass, he could vaguely hear the cry of the newspaper boy, catch the background noise of people talking. A couple of ministry men there, walking with their canes and wearing their top hats and fine coats. There was a gang of workmen on the opposite side – road workers, judging from the carts of the equipment they were escorting into position. And close by, the chitchat of three women dressed in their long skirts and petticoats. One of them holding onto her lavish hat as the wind momentarily picked up.
A mother and her two daughters… Holmes silently nodded to himself.
Despite his hopes, no one was turning towards the door of 221B.
Holmes gave a short, sharp laugh. "I should not be so selfish! My lack of work means that London is relatively peaceful…," he exclaimed to himself.
Sighing, he decided to forgo the pipe, and instead to read some of Mycroft's copies of developments in the continental political world. He started to turn, when…
Ahh…
Holmes snapped his attention back to the window, having caught a glimpse of the young woman dashing across the street with such haste that she startled the horse of the oncoming Hansom. Ignoring the ire of the driver, she raced on – running with a slight limp, and heading straight for Mrs Hudson's front door.
Holmes's mood abruptly improved, and his eyes shone keenly. He strode across the sitting room and opened the door. Soon, he was looking down the stairwell and leaning on the rail. From here, he could hear the voices of his landlady and his visitor.
"Oh! Look at your dress, dear! Mud stains…"
"Sorry, Mrs H! I tripped whilst I was runnin' through the park. Please… I need to see Mr 'Olmes. It's urgent!" The voice was slightly high-pitched. Not very different to the last time he had seen her – along with her fellow ragamuffins, back in…
My word. Has it really been six years? Holmes thought to himself. And yet, she still wears that same soft hat. Perhaps it is her only one.
"Well. I'd better see if he is happy to receive you," the older woman replied.
Holmes cleared his throat, catching their attention. "Send her up, if you please, Mrs Hudson," he requested in his clear, sharp voice.
And so, a minute later, Sherlock Holmes was passing his breakfast plate and unfinished teacup to his landlady, whilst his visitor was directed towards one of the chairs in the area of the room where so many consultations had been held before. Holmes noticed that she was sweating, yet had her arms wrapped around herself. As if she was shivering.
"Some water for Miss Eccleston would be in order, I believe, Mrs Hudson,"
Martha Hudson nodded, and soon returned with a mug and a bottle filled with tap water. Soon, the visitor had cooled down and started to regain her composure before the fire, as the landlady departed, closing the door behind her.
Holmes sat down in his usual chair besides the mantlepiece. He then pressed the palms of his hands together, whilst his stormy grey eyes peered over them to scrutinise the grown-up orphan before him.
"You must in your mid-twenties now, young lady," Holmes observed.
She nodded. "I'm twenty-six, Mr 'Olmes. Wiggins is thirty years of age. Can you believe it!"
" 'pon my soul," Holmes replied. "Well. It has been six years since we last met, Rose Eccleston. When you were still one of my Baker Street Irregulars – known to them as 'Rosie'. Partly because you were a flower seller – but also due to your name 'Rose E'."
She managed to smile as she removed her soft, battered hat. "I remember those days with affection, Mr 'Olmes. 'Pecially the cases me, Queenie, and the lads took up ourselves. Despite Arnold Wiggins sometimes calling us the Baker Street Boys, 'stead of the Irregulars."
"And you still help Victoria Quentin – Queenie – in her laundry business, I see."
" 'Ow did you know that?"
Holmes smiled. "I have taken an interest in the wellbeing of my Irregulars – even the grown-up ones who have moved aside for the…upcoming generation, shall we say?"
"The regular payment to the laundry that Queenie won't tell me about…"
"Quite so. It comes from me, every three months. A small sum, to help keep my previous Irregulars afloat in their budding business ventures."
"Oh, thank you, Mr 'Olmes. That's helped Queenie to pay all sorts of bills for us to keep going."
"But I was not aware that you were still working at the laundry, until I saw the splash stains on your dress – next to the mud marks," Holmes continued. "Now, let me hear why you were in such a hurry to see me this morning!"
The young, messy-looking Rosie ran her fingers through her dirty, light-brown hair. Her eyes were puffed from dried tears, and now her voice quivered.
"It's Shiner… Simon Quentin… Mr 'Olmes. He tried to tackle a thief who stole our takings as me and him closed our flower and vegetable stall at the market, on my weekly day off from the laundry. The geezer had a knife – an' he stuck it in Shiner!"
" 'pon my word! I am very sorry to hear that, Rosie. And your young man? What is his condition now?"
"He's in the local 'ospital, Mr 'Olmes. I wasn't allowed to see 'im – but the doctors say Shiner's lung was punctured, an' he's lost a lot o' blood. They're doin' what they can to keep 'im with us! I'm scared, sir! We got the word through to Our Mutual Friend by sending Sparrow – an' he came back with him, to spy upon Shiner last night in the 'ospital. He later told us that taking Shiner 'under his wing' might be the only way to save Shiner…"
Now Rosie wept openly. Feeling somewhat awkward, Holmes got up and fished for the box of tissues he kept for situations like these. He handed a tissue to his visitor as he patted her shoulder. When she had recovered sufficiently, he sat down again and spoke once more.
"I see… And what of the thief?"
"He got away with our money, Mr 'Olmes. But I didn't come 'ere for you to track 'im down."
"What did you come to see me for then, Rosie? I am naturally grieved at the news, but I do not see how I…"
"I want to see the journal, Mr 'Olmes. He told me about it, last night, when he comforted me inside the waiting area. After spying upon Shiner."
" 'He' being Our Mutual Friend, you mean?"
"That's right, sir. He said you had a copy. If Shiner has to become…" Rosie looked down at the carpet, suddenly unable to meet Holmes's keen gaze. "I want to know what it's like, in case…"
"You are too young, Rosie," Holmes cautioned her, his eyes narrowing. "What you are thinking is a dark road to travel – with no way back. As you know, I lost Watson to it."
"You miss him, Mr 'Olmes. Even though…"
"I miss having him living here, yes. Having him on most of my investigations. Keeping a more-or-less accurate record of them – despite his romantism, and despite him slipping up on the dates, now and then. Having someone to remind me that my outlook upon the world is sometimes too rigid. Having someone as my moral compass. Oh yes. I miss the way things used to be. My dependable Watson. My dear friend."
Rosie was silent for a long moment as she gathered her thoughts. Then she spoke again. "Shiner is being kept under observation by… By someone from the Lodge of the Watchful Moon. They would be taking it in turns, I was told. Ready to step in…if Shiner can't be saved. Please Mr 'Olmes. I want to know…what he could be gettin' himself into."
Holmes drummed his fingers on his armrest, and then sighed at Rosie's distraught expression. Getting up, he dashed into his bedroom and soon re-emerged with a scrap book. He presented it to Rosie.
"All the papers that were duplicated to me are bound in it, in chronological order. But I insist that it does not leave this building. You must read it here. You can read, I trust?"
"Queenie taught me, sir." Rosie managed a small smile as she opened up the scrap book and saw the duplicated journal entries on sheets of paper that were held inside by plastic holders. "Oh. Thank you, Mr 'Olmes… Wait a mo'. You are leaving me here?"
"Yes," Holmes replied as he slipped on his coat. "I must speak to Our Mutual Friend about poor Shiner, if I can. Or pass on word via our allies. I will return by noon. Pray continue your reading, Rosie. You will find it most instructive and enlightening. But the information is confidential, you understand?"
Rosie solemnly nodded. "I swear not to tell anyone not already in the know, sir."
"Excellent! Then I must take my leave for now." The great detective left, shutting the door to his living quarters behind him.
For a few moments, Rosie gathered her thoughts as she listened to the muffled sounds from the street outside. Then, hearing the ticking of the mantlepiece clock, she got on with what she had wanted to do. She handled the scrap book as if it was a bible, trying not to smudge the pages with her dirty fingernails…
The title on the front cover read 'Collected papers relating to the Lodge of the Watchful Moon'.
Rosie opened the book up and quickly looked over the papers – where thankfully the words and letters were not as long and slanted as many as she had seen. No. Someone had made the effort to make the letters more legible. And they were composed of entries from two different journals. Two different writers. But arranged collectively into chronological order, so that the reader could understand the course of events that had overturned the lives of the authors.
She took another gulp of water and made herself comfortable as she tried to identify and read the most important entries. She already knew some of the outline of what had happened – but here were the details. The incredible, life-changing details…
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
Dr John H Watson, M.D., late Indian Army:
I am writing an account of the following set of bizarre incidents, as if it were another one of Holmes's cases, as it helps me – if only a little – to come to terms with what has happened of late. I feel that I need to set out a record, even though I certainly do not intend to add this one to the despatch box at Cox and Co. Indeed, this case must never reach the public. It would mar Holmes's reputation amongst his admiring public. And the disclosure to a wider audience would be dangerous for me.
So, to the reader, I trust that you are Holmes – or you are someone that he trusts to keep secret the dark revelations of this investigation. You must promise to keep confidential the information that you will soon uncover through my writings.
It is possible that even at the end you will not believe the contents of my account. Perhaps that is for the better.
The nightmare began in April 1894. At that moment in history, Holmes was still officially dead – having gone missing after his confrontation with Professor Moriarty (the 'Napoleon of Crime') at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, in 1891. I had been the first to reach the scene after the fight between the two men – a fight that I personally did not see. But with no sign of either man, at the falls or in the locality, I had naturally assumed both Holmes and Moriarty had tumbled into the roaring, churning waters below the path, in their inevitable fight.
It turned out that I was half right. Holmes had decided to fool the world into believing him dead, to evade the wrath of Moriarty's underlings, who would only be out for revenge.
So, by April 1894, I had returned to my practice full time, in order to support myself and my wife, Mary. The letters from the public, demanding to know about the unpublished cases of Sherlock Holmes that I had briefly eluded to in the cases I had released, had not ceased. My wife had told me of her mixed feelings. She had been visibly upset when I returned to her after the Switzerland showdown and told her of Holmes's fate. She saw how much Holmes's death had shaken me. But a week after the memorial service for Holmes in spring 1891 that we (along with Mycroft Holmes; Inspectors Lestrade, Gregson, Jones, and Bradstreet) attended, Mary confided in me that she was grateful that I was able to be with her more. She urged me to write what adventures I was able to of Holmes.
"It would be cathartic for you, to overcome your grief, John. And it would be our way of honouring him and his work. And I honestly enjoy reading them. I like to know how he has helped so many visitors to his door," Mary confessed as we were kissing, one night in bed, some days after the memorial service.
I nodded. "Like he helped you. I'll…see what I can do, Mary. It's…it's hard for me to write about his cases, knowing that he has gone."
She tenderly stroked my face. "The pain will dull in time, John. I miss him too… Granted, I only saw him now and then – usually because I was with you, or I was visiting Martha. And he and I did not always see eye-to-eye. Especially when we had differences over you…"
I sighed. "I know, and I'm sorry, dear. I sometimes spent days with Holmes, far away from London. Instead of being with you. I should have been there for you more, but you seemed to be happy for me to spend time with my friend…"
"…because I knew how much it meant to you, to share in Sherlock Holmes's investigations. And because I wanted to read your accounts." Mary sighed, her blue eyes glancing down for a moment. "And I have to admit, you selling the stories to The Strand helped us to settle in marriage."
I ran my free hand through her fine blonde curls. "Yes, that's true. But I will need to spend more time in the practice now, Mary, to help our finances. You…" I pulled my face back a bit to address her. "You don't regret that we courted so quickly? That we…?"
Mary looked shocked by my questions, and she hugged me, her eyes wide. "John! Of course, I don't regret us marrying! I'm grateful to Sherlock for bringing us together. I'm grateful that we met, and that we decided to marry. I love you! And I want us to have the family we've talked of having."
I hugged her back and kissed her. "I love you too, Mary," I told her from my heart. "And I want us to be there for each other, always. Shall…? Shall we try again to…?"
Mary blushed. "Not yet, dear. Give me a little time to enjoy being a wife without children - before we take that path. Let's enjoy our marriage together as we are."
"Of course," I replied.
And so, in a manner of speaking, we got to work on one another that night, as husband and wife. By now, Mary and I had learnt exactly how to kiss each other. Just how to convey our feelings, and how to time our passion during our intimate moments.
I am not normally in the habit of writing much of my personal life with Mary. But I note in particular, my happy memories of that evening. Just how loving and gentle we were to each other, helping each other to drop our anxieties and inhibitions. How we were learning to touch and caress each other where we needed it. How warm Mary was to me – not just in her sensitive nature, but in her very touch…
But thinking about that memory brings tears to my eyes when I reflect on what happened in early April 1894, barely three years later.
Even by the onset of spring that year, I was still in regular contact with Mrs Hudson, despite the fact that all of my possessions had been moved by me to the home I shared with Mary, when I married. I did find it interesting that Mrs Hudson was still refusing to let the rooms to any other guests. She told me that Mycroft Holmes had started to pay the rent on it since the middle of 1891. Occasionally, he would come over and meet some government officials – or visiting dignitaries from the continent, in order to discuss business, in an unofficial safe house.
I remember revisiting this topic with Mary on that significant spring day in 1894, the first Wednesday of April, wondering why Mrs Hudson was still content to keep tidy the set of rooms Sherlock Holmes had resided in, but had not taken in another lodger.
"I do not understand it myself, dear," Mary told me over dinner. "Mycroft's use of the rooms is slight. Most of the time, the rooms are unoccupied – but Martha has told me that Mycroft is paying her a good rate of money for this agreement. It makes me wonder…"
"Wonder what?" I pressed her, seeing the thoughtful look on her face. I was reminded of what Holmes said to me, when I told him of our engagement. Although he was pained by the fact that my marriage would mean me moving out of 221B Baker Street, leaving him to be alone for want of male company ("I really cannot congratulate you," he had said, no less!), he had no complaint in my choice of female companion. He had considered Mary to be "…one of the most charming young ladies I have ever met and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way…"
Mary shook her head. "Never mind. As Sherlock would say, there is little point in theorising without enough facts. Martha does not seem to know anything more on the matter, despite my pressing her."
"Perhaps Mycroft is keeping the rooms as they are, as a mark of devoted memory to his brother," I suggested, before taking another bite of the particularly good chicken dish my wife had cooked. "Alas, I have not spoken to him since the service."
"It seems strange, but it is possible." Mary dipped her head in response as she sipped her tea. "My friend, Mrs Forrester, told me about the death of her brother, from illness. He was only ten years of age. But it would be another two years before she would be allowed by her parents to move into her brother's bedroom. In the interim, she was told to keep sharing a bedroom with her elder sister."
I nodded in reply, and the conversation drifted to other matters, including Mary's day, and how my practice was going – though I took care not to reveal the names of my patients, or too much detail of their ailments.
"What is it you are seeing tonight with Mrs Hudson?" I asked Mary as our meal drew to a close.
She smiled. "It is the music hall theatre we are going to, John. Where that young man of Holmes' Irregulars, Sparrow, still works. Martha likes the singing and juggling. But I do so enjoy seeing the magical performers! I wonder what it would be like if I could learn and perform some kind of trick myself. Leave others guessing at how the trick was done."
I chuckled. "Have you worked out how those performers work their magic?"
A grin came to Mary's lips. "I think I have cracked one trick. The one with the blindfolded assistant – the other Mary that you have met…"
"Oh yes, that poor American orphan who decided to stay in London with Sparrow and his friends," I remarked.
"Well, I've been shown the blindfold by Sparrow, who now performs the act. And it is not possible to see through it. But I've seen that act a few times now, John. The key lies in the words that Sparrow uses when he holds an object. The keywords act as a code, conveying to Mary what the object is!"
I took this in, and then laughed in good nature. Rising from the table, I went over to kiss Mary as she too got up.
"Holmes held you in high regard, you should know, Mary. He thought you could've helped us in our work as detectives," I informed her.
Mary's eyes widened. "Would you men have allowed me to travel with you to places such as Birmingham and Devon? What would I have been allowed to do, whilst you mingled with the police?"
"I… I am not sure, Mary." I frowned, thinking what might have happened if my wife had indeed travelled with myself and Holmes on our cases, given the prospect of danger. "Perhaps having you around could have helped us, when we were dealing with our lady clients, such as Violet Hunter. And perhaps we could have sent you to do research at the libraries, if we were working on a case in London… Anyway, time is getting on. I need to shave. Then I'll try to write up a suitable case that I still have only notes of. That is, once I've had another review of what is known about that recent mysterious shooting…"
"The Honourable Ronald Adair?"
"Yes. The same man." I kissed her again. "Enjoy your evening out, Mary."
She kissed me back, her blue eyes smiling at me. "Thank you, John. I will."
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
Except that Mary did not get to enjoy the evening that much.
Oh, from what Martha Hudson later told me, both ladies had certainly been entertained by the music hall theatre. But it was during the journey home, in the fog, that the night had turned truly dark.
It is now four days since my life has been shattered, as I write this. Four days since I last kissed Mary, before she left to meet up with Mrs Hudson at Baker Street, and then walk together the approximate mile or so to the music hall.
That evening, whilst I was waiting for Mary to return, I did indeed re-read my notes on the Ronald Adair, realising that I lacked enough knowledge to solve the case. If only there were other police inspectors as thorough and intelligent as Holmes, to solve the case. Better still, if only Holmes was still alive…
Remembering Mary's words, I turned my attention to my notes of the many cases of Holmes I had not yet written in full for the public, wondering which would provide enough curious details and display my late friend's remarkable skills and insight. Whilst doing so, it occurred to me I had never fleshed out my notes on the case involving the Aluminium Crutch…
The knock on the front door came as I began to wonder what was keeping Mary late from returning. To my surprise, it was Inspector Gregson. Instead of sending a constable, he had come in person, to alert me that Mrs Hudson and Mary had been attacked whilst taking a side road – a short cut – in order to reach Baker Street. The redoubtable Martha Hudson was slightly injured and shaken, but Mary…
Gregson had already taken his hat off before entering my house. But his worried, grim expression had already put me on edge, before he delivered the words, when I pressed him about my wife.
"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. As I understand it, your wife put up a fight when Mrs Hudson was attacked as the ladies were passing a torn down storage building. Mrs Watson was badly wounded…lost a lot of blood…" The flaxen-haired Inspector looked down at my sitting room carpet.
"She's…dead?" I gasped.
"I'm afraid so, sir. Mrs Watson died soon after arriving at the hospital, despite the frantic efforts of the emergency ward staff. I'm very sorry for your loss. I remember that day when, by chance, I met you and her during your shopping trip – and we talked. She seemed a lovely, bright woman."
I collapsed into the nearest chair in shock and held my head in my hands. Eventually, I asked Gregson what had happened.
Putting the events of the incident together would take some time. I headed to the local hospital with Gregson, to comfort a weeping Martha Hudson, before steeling myself to face the body of the deceased, to confirm that it was indeed Mary. Gregson and the attendant graciously allowed me time alone in the allocated private room, so that I could collapse upon my knees besides the bed Mary had been placed upon. I cried out my grief, then finally rose upon my shaking legs and kissed Mary's lips for the second – and last – time that night. Her eyes were closed. Her expression was pained, but she still looked graceful in death. With some numbness, I saw the marks on one side of her neck, where the flesh had been torn apart, causing her to bleed and eventually perish. I observed my wife's pale face, caused by the loss of blood…
Peculiarly, there were traces of ashes around her face and mouth, and on the front of her clothes. There were also some dried bloodstains on her lips.
Puzzled, but believing that I had observed all that I could, I left Mary's remains to the care of the police and returned to the doctor's room that Gregson had appropriated for the night. There, I calmed Martha Hudson down enough for her to give her account of the attack to both me and the Inspector.
I did briefly see another man in connection with the attack, at the hospital where he was being treated for minor wounds – though I never got to speak to him. Mrs Hudson told me the well-dressed man had ran over to the scene and tried to aid her and Mary in the fight, after they had cried out for help. He was a tall, lean, bespectacled man – a little younger than me - with receding dark hair. His evening suit and fine black shoes, I had observed, were now coated in thick dust.
He did not look at me during our brief moment of me passing by. In fact, when I saw a doctor and nurse treating his face for scratches, he did not react to the nurse's instructions. He just stared ahead and did not blink. It was, as I reflected on my own experience with soldiers during my time in India, as if the man was in shock.
Gregson was not able to answer my questions as to who the man was.
"He's barely said anything, Doctor Watson – and he has nothing with his name on it. I'll turn my attention in full to him later, when the doctor and nurse have finished with him," he told me at the time.
Mrs Hudson was able to tell me that there had been two attackers – a smartly-dressed man and a hooded woman. As she and Mary had passed the partially ruined storeroom, the man and woman had emerged onto the side road they were on, blocking them in. The man in front, and the woman behind. They did not speak – but instead brandished a knife each, as they slowly advanced upon the frightened ladies. Mary had pulled Martha Hudson into the storeroom in order to find a way around the hoodlums – but instead the grinning pair then gave chase and attacked the women. The hooded woman prevented them from escaping the scene – whilst the man flung himself first at Mrs Hudson.
In the end, the female hoodlum – her hood now down - had fled after a pair of policemen had rushed in, hearing the screams of my ex-landlady.
As for the male attacker, Mrs Hudson did not see him leave.
"I…I don't understand it, Doctor," she told me that evening, as Gregson was taking notes. "He was the one who turned upon Mary in fury, after she saved me by grabbing a half brick that was amongst the rubble on the ground, before…before she whacked his head with it. After the fight, when I retained my senses, I rolled to my side to see that well-dressed man on his knees, wide-eyed, dropping a knife. And I saw poor Mary, on her back, and…with that thug's clothes on Mary. But the attacker…he himself was gone!"
"His clothes…were left on Mary?" I echoed, wondering if I was hearing my ex-landlady correctly.
"Yes, Doctor Watson," said she, as she dried her eyes and looked up at me. "Mary was on the ground, where the brute had tackled her after she hit him. I caught a glimpse of them locked hand to hand against each other. That was all I could see at the time, because I was trying to hold off that woman hoodlum who rushed at me…when her fellow turned his attention to Mary instead."
"It was a complete set of clothes, too, Doctor Watson," Gregson remarked, looking at me. "I don't understand why our missing murderer would strip and then run off."
I rubbed my forehead, bewildered at what I was being told.
"Let me see if I am understanding this correctly, Mrs Hudson," I spoke to her gently. "A man and a woman who you have never seen before, attacked you and Mary – with the man going for you first with his knife, and the woman cutting off any escape route. They did not say anything to either you or Mary…"
"That's right, doctor," said she. "They didn't even tell us to hand over our money. He tried to slash me, but I managed to block his aim with my handbag. Next, Mary whacks him with a half brick, and he drops his knife, turning upon her with fury as he attacks her with his bare hands. Then that gent rushes in from the street, after hearing our screams. He shouts at our attackers, but they hold their ground. The gent pauses, as if to gauge if he should aid me or Mrs Watson – and then he whacks his walking stick against the man. At about the same time, that woman thug jumps upon me, and aims at my neck with her knife even as I manage to dodge her… It's about then that I hear Mary scream. Next thing, there's something like a gurgle, a croaking noise. Then Mary gasping for breath, as she lays on the ground choking. I could only hear this, mind – cos' that hideous woman was trying to box me into a corner and cut my neck, so my eyes were on her. Next thing I know, she's distracted by the noises. She looks across, and then screams out "NO!" As if in shock."
"Then, apparently the two policemen run in, blowing their whistle – and the female attacker legs it," Gregson added.
Mrs Hudson nodded. "The woman snarled. Actually snarled. Then she slashed her knife at the police, making them back off, before she ran off through the exit. She was too fast for one of them to keep up… The other bobby tried to help Mary. Then I saw what had happened to her. Saw the clothes on her. And I saw that gentleman dropping the knife and staring at Mary with wide eyes." Martha Hudson shook her head, and shuddered.
"This woman was hooded at first – then her hood came down. What did she look like?" I asked my ex-landlady.
"S-she was aged in her forties, Doctor. Frumpy-looking. Pale-faced... Her hair was long, and a very dark-brown. But her face…! Her eyes seemed to blaze with glee. As if she was demented. At-attacking me seemed to thrill her." Mrs Hudson paused as her shaking hands clutched at her handkerchief again. "W-why did this happen to us, Doctor Watson?" she wailed. "I don't have an enemy in the world – and neither did poor Mary. Now she's been taken from us!"
I didn't have any answers for my ex-landlady – and neither did the Inspector. I only had my suspicions that perhaps the two assailants were working for agents of the late Professor Moriarty. If indeed, the departed villain still had agents still at large in London. I could not think of any other enemies Holmes and myself had crossed who would be so daring, so ruthless, to attack my wife and Mrs Hudson in this barbaric manner.
All I could do was to comfort Martha Hudson in my arms, even as I wept for my loss.
At least one person who was dear to me, had been saved that night. Thanks to my brave Mary.
But her aid of strength and courage had been her last one.