The Entrance & Exit of Mr Sherlock Holmes
The first thing I shall say is that I am a great admirer of Dr. Watson. I remember when he came to the house, right after his injury, poor man. I have no wish to diminish him in any regard, as he is a most compelling gentleman, but there is no doubt that an injury such as that takes a dreadful toll upon the health of both the body and the mind, and I have always admired his courage and perseverance throughout his recovery. Moreover, his literary gifts – surprising to himself as much as anybody else – are considerable. It is certain that the notoriety of his friend is largely due to his excellent writings on the subject.
Nevertheless, I cannot but notice that his description of me to date has been less than complimentary. Indeed, I have received letters advising me that, at my “advanced age,” I should dissociate myself entirely from the escapades of Mr. Holmes. Though I am certain that the good doctor intended no malign, it is undeniable that in his efforts to chronicle his adventures and those of his friend, he has left an impression that I am, not to put too fine a point, decrepit.
Please allow me to correct the record.
In 1880, at the age of six and thirty, I found myself in the deplorable state of widowhood. This is not to say that my husband and I were happy. But regardless of marital bliss, it is no small thing to be a woman alone. Moreover, I had two young children to support. My husband left me little but the house we shared, and so I decided to put my sole inheritance to work for me and my family. I had a door installed to separate the top floor, furnished it as best I could on my meagre budget, and placed an advertisement in the Times of London:
“Room to let. Central location. Private apartment in family home. £6 monthly. Meals and housekeeping included. Enquire to Mrs. Hudson, 221 Baker Street.”
It was not a week into the advertisement when I received a knock at the door. Billy was the first to answer. At eight years old, he was very excited by the idea of having a lodger – or more to the point, the idea of playing page to the lodger. He had only just read a series of stories about King Arthur and his noble knights. While he was at first disappointed that there were no eight-year-olds amongst the Round Table, he was quickly consoled when I told him of squires and pages. There being no knight immediately accessible to accept him as squire, he defaulted to declaring himself the Page of House Hudson.
The gentleman at the door was – well, if you already know my name, you must surely know his. He was so young, younger perhaps than Watson credited him, and behind his formal bearing I detected a tremor of insecurity. I was not surprised later to learn that this was his first time searching for lodging. However, when he saw Billy open the door, he smiled.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, and from where I observed in the kitchen doorway I saw Billy’s thin shoulders square with pride.
“And a better evening to you,” Billy returned pertly. He had always been precocious. “May I ask your name and business?”
The young man quirked a sardonic eyebrow.
“I am here to see the lady of the house,” he said, “to enquire about the room.”
I stepped forward and laid a hand on the top of Billy’s head, while Sarah toddled after me, hiding behind my skirts.
“I’m the lady of the house, sir,” I said, and extended a hand which he shook. “Would you like to see the rooms?”
“Rooms! The advertisement only mentioned one.”
“No, in fact there are two rooms, connected by an adjoining parlor. Excellent home for a young family,” I hazarded, but he laughed.
“No chance of that. But perhaps…” He considered a moment, his grey eyes retreating. “Yes, I should very much like to see them.”
“Billy, you take Sarah while I show the gentleman upstairs,” I said. Billy nodded and took his little sister by the hand, pulling her to the kitchen with promises of biscuits.
I led the young man up the narrow stairs to the side of the entryway and opened the door. It was a lovely apartment, or so I flatter myself to this day. The furnishing was somewhat old-fashioned, but quite homely, with an intimate circle of two armchairs and a sofa around the fireplace. The mantle was my particular pride, beautifully carved by my late husband – other than my children, one of the few things he had ever given me out of love. There was a locked roll-top desk in the corner, and two short corridors leading to the bedrooms on either side.
“The place is furnished,” I said, “but we can certainly refurbish to meet your needs.”
“Such as?” He wandered around the parlor thoughtfully, stopping every now and then to inspect the furniture with intense precision.
“Well, if you preferred a study to a second bedroom, it could certainly be arranged.”
“And what of the price?” he asked, his tone imperious but his manner somewhat diffident.
“What of it?”
“Well, is it firm?”
“Oh, certainly,” I said. “For three rooms and full board I could not come down. It would hardly be worth anything to me then.”
“I see, I see.”
He made his way to the front window and peered out of it toward the buildings across.
“It is quite private,” I said. “The house facing us has been empty for some time. A case of probate, I believe.”
“Hm? Ah, no. I was interested in what businesses there were, and in the view of the street. It appears more than satisfactory. May I see the bedrooms?”
I gestured toward the right corridor, and he went through the door at the end.
“The furniture is quite fine,” he said, almost ruefully.
“There is a water closet off to the left,” I said from the corridor, pointing at the door he had just walked past. “The private closet is another excellent value in this apartment.”
“Indeed, indeed.” His face grew darker the longer I talked, I could only assume because of my firmness on the rent. I had wanted to emphasize to him the remarkably low cost for such rooms, but if they were too dear for his pocket, I had begun to resign myself to it.
“May I enquire as to your name and occupation, sir?” I said, despairing of any other way to continue the conversation.
He spun on his heel and gave a small, almost comical bow. “Sherlock Holmes at your service. As to my occupation, it may be difficult to explain. These rooms are quite satisfactory,” he continued abruptly.
“I’m glad to hear it!” I could hardly conceal my surprise. “Shall I fetch the contract?”
“I have an alternative proposal,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but the rent –”
“Certainly.” He waved a hand dismissively. “The rent is dear, but fair. I wonder if you would be willing to hold these rooms for me for a few days, during which time I shall search for someone to take it with. If I am unable to find such a man within, let us say, a week, then the rooms are yours again.”
I thought for perhaps too long a moment; Mr. Holmes’ face grew anxious as I thought. A week was a long time, and my husband’s pension money was running out. On the other hand, this had been my only enquiry since putting in the ad a week ago, so what was there to lose? I had become strangely sisterly of this awkward yet charming gentleman over our short acquaintance.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
Mr. Holmes clapped his hands together. “Capital! Then you shall hear from me in a week’s time at the latest.”
The rest you must know. Within two days, he returned with Dr. Watson and engaged the premises on the spot. Two days after that, they had moved in, already thick as thieves. Over the next four years, Mr. Holmes brought a never-ending series of fascinating clients to my door. I didn’t mind it. He was always one to give over a lecture on his methods, and I was always glad to hear them, whether serving tea in his parlor or in my kitchen elbows-deep in flour. Sometimes he would test me, bringing a piece of evidence down to my kitchen or sitting room and asking me what I could glean from it, and still more rarely I felt that I impressed him. And indeed, my sisterly affection for him only increased with the years.
And then, he died.