Free The Hudson Diaries by Kara L. Barney

Holmes something, told him some particulars and said that he believed Mr. Holmes should inspect the area himself to see if he could discover anything. He nodded, closed the door and asked Dr. Watson for a private conference. After a few minutes Mr. Holmes returned, saying, “I shall be back shortly. Dr. Watson will take care of you until my return.” He must have seen my face, for he then said, “We will find him Martha, I promise.”
    Dr. Watson was as kind and congenial to me as ever, attempting to alleviate my sorrow with conversation. Alas, my mind was distracted, and poor Dr. Watson was left speaking mainly to himself. When his store of small subjects was finally depleted, he said, “My dear, I feared that I would get to this eventually, but…ah, Mr. Holmes suggested that—ah…that we begin looking into arrangements for the funeral.”
    All feeling went from my body. I could not speak or move, even if I had wished to. Coming out of my reverie, I said, “He left no will… Rupert’s family is also small, quite small. In two days we could put him in the earth.”
    With this concise explanation tears welled up again, and Dr. Watson offered me his third handkerchief; I could only sigh and wipe the tears away. At last I stood up and went immediately to the door. My hand was on the knob when Dr. Watson said, “But wait! Where are you going?”
    “To market to buy flowers for the funeral.” When he asked if he could escort me, I told him not to worry, that I was well and would soon return. When he adamantly discouraged my going, I said that my wish was merely to be productive, nothing more. He at last grudgingly consented and I left. When I came back to the Baker Street door, Mr. Holmes had returned. A heated argument was taking place which abruptly ended upon my entrance.
    “Mrs. Hudson, I have some news.” Mr. Holmes struggled to sound at ease; there was a look in his eye that detected suspicious behavior. “I do not know who it is, but I know who it is not.”
    “I do not gather your meaning, sir.”
    “Well, I know it is neither Henry Bertram nor his associates to date.”
    “How did you come to this conclusion, sir?”
    “I kept the bullet casings from when I received my own wound and attempted to match them to the ones found in your flowerbeds under the windowsill. They do not match at all.”
    “Who then, Mr. Holmes?!” I cried in anguish. “We made only a modest living, and Rupert to my knowledge never hurt a soul in his life. Who would do this, except a man who would kill my husband knowing I would come to you for aid?”
    For the first time in his life, Mr. Holmes was struck dumb. He then said, very quietly, “Your employment with me would not be enough of a motive to kill your husband, Martha.”
    “Then it is lost,” I said, rising. “My husband as well as his case. Should you wish to attend the funeral, it shall be on the hills near my home in two days time. Until then, adieu, gentlemen.” As I closed the door, anger and despair rose within me, for I felt that no rest would come until the case was solved, with or without Sherlock Holmes.
    The next two days passed quickly, and before long Rupert was on the hill to rest there forever. After the mourners had given their condolences and all services had been rendered, I stood alone near his graveside until Mr. Holmes approached. He stood in silence until I spoke. “What might I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
    “Where will you go?” he asked.
    “I do not know. My parents are dead, and now my husband also. I am alone in this bleak world, sir.”
    I shook my head in despair. Silence followed, and I took a small dagger from my apron. In my anguish I had run to a vendor for the most lethal weapon my meager means could buy, and I now held it in my hand. “There is nothing left for me to do,” I said at last, “but to join them.” I lifted the knife and tilted my head back, but before the blade could touch my breast, Mr. Holmes had it out of my