Free The Hudson Diaries by Kara L. Barney Page A

hands.
    “Stop!” he shouted, “Do not throw your life away in such grief!”
    “My only love is dead…what have I to live for?”
    “The world needs you, Martha.”
    “I have nothing left to give.”
    Mr. Holmes looked down upon me sadly. “Is there nothing I might say to you to keep you from so rash an act?”
    I shook my head and endeavored to grab the dagger. He raised his fist out of reach and said, “We will find your husband’s murderer—I promised you that before and do so again. Can you find it within yourself to trust me now, Mrs. Hudson, as I did you on that first day you came into my employment? Please let me be of service to you now, instead of this terrible alternative.”
    Defeated at last by misery and exhaustion, my hand dropped and I covered my face. I began to sob heartily; Mr. Holmes embraced me, and in this small way shared in my grief. He and Dr. Watson escorted me again to Baker Street, where we started the case afresh.
    “Martha, did you know anyone intimately before your husband?”
    At first I shook my head, but then remembered a face from long ago, and remembered his expression at my wedding.
    “There was one man, John Guthrie. But that was several years before I met Rupert.”
    “What was he like?”
    “We thought we were in love once. Generally he was very kind, but—”
    I paused and shivered. Mr. Holmes’s brows knitted, and I knew he wished me to continue. I inhaled deeply and did so. “He had a very violent temper, and would often jump to false conclusions. His jealousy could last for weeks, even if his accusations had no foundation.”
    Mr. Holmes sat in deep concentration. “Did he ever do violence against you?”
    I sighed and felt suddenly anxious. “Twice. On the second pass, we parted. He came to my home trying to apologize, but I knew then, that what he wished for him and I could never be. My parents and I relocated to Charing Cross a few months later.”
    Mr. Holmes stood up, wrote a note, and sent for a messenger boy. “Mrs. Hudson,” he asked, “if I invited Mr. Guthrie here, would you be able to see him one last time? I believe he has a confession to make.”
    Within the hour John Guthrie, now much changed, walked through the door. His dark hair had grown long, his clothes disheveled and dirty. He swaggered and swayed as if drunken, though his keen black eyes focused long and well upon me. Mr. Holmes remained at ease, unaffected by John’s entrance. I stayed with Dr. Watson near the door.
    “Mr. Guthrie,” said Mr. Holmes nonchalantly. “Please, do sit down.” John did so, staining the upholstery and the entire room with his presence.
    “What do you want with me?” he said roughly.
    “I only wish for you to answer a few questions for me. Do you know this woman?” Mr. Holmes pointed to me.
    “Yes—we know each other well.”
    Mr. Holmes went on as though nothing had occurred, though I could sense he was watching his every move. “Did you know she was recently married?”
    “I heard rumors.” John was becoming nervous, for he was wiping his hands on his trousers. My own anger was rising.
    “And did you know,” continued Mr. Holmes, “that her husband died just two days ago, from gunshot wounds to the back?”
    Guthrie laughed at this, long and hard, which left Dr. Watson and myself aghast. Mr. Holmes’s eyes became cold, his mouth thin and tight. “He is dead, then?” John said, still chuckling. “That suits him. He doesn’t deserve her.”
    My rage was uncontrollable. I strode up to John and struck him hard in the face. “Did you kill my husband, you worthless devil?”
    He only grinned, and then his long arms were about my waist. “I didn’t…but I’m glad someone had the courage to do it.”
    “Unhand me, villain!” I screamed and struck him once more before Mr. Holmes had untangled me from his vice-like grip and grabbed him by the collar. “I hate you, John Guthrie—you are nothing but wickedness to me!”
    “Do not touch her