Chapter Text
It had been a quiet couple of days for Martha Hudson. Her drunken lout of a husband had wandered off God-only-knew-where with one of his many low-life girlfriends, doing God-only-knew-what. She had ceased asking about his comings and goings long ago, usually after having received a beating for asking. She regretted that she hadn’t dated him very long before they’d gotten married; in fact, he had swept her off her feet with his superficial charm and easy money. She’d been young, impressionable, and way too wild in those days. She’d caught his eye while working as an exotic dancer in one of the more upscale “gentlemen’s clubs” he frequented and he had decided that he had to have her. She shook her head and clucked her tongue at the memory as she sat down for her evening tea.
As she looked around her small kitchen, she realized how much she missed having a full–sized flat sometimes. The coffee shop out front helped to offset the mortgage, but it also ate up what used to be her living room and bedroom. She had taken to sleeping--and bathing--on the third floor so she could rent out the second floor flat to a tenant. 221A was totally unlivable due to the damp problem down there. People had complained about the musty smell and the mold that seemed to form on all surfaces. There was another bedroom on the third floor, but it wasn’t a proper flat on its own, so she treated it as an adjunct to 221B, making it into a more-marketable two-bedroom flat.
After couple of sips of tea, she sighed gratefully. One less night of having her husband come home from the pub, rowdy at best, incoherently violent at worst. Martha’s mind had began to tread down a familiar path when she was startled by a mighty clattering of bins outside her side window. It sounded like someone had fallen into them, repeatedly.
Oh, Lord, don’t let it be him coming home, she silently prayed as she peered cautiously out the curtained window.
It had darkened significantly in the time it took her to make tea, so it was almost impossible to see anything from her vantage point. A lid from one of the bins had rolled away from the rest and she thought she saw a foot resting partially under it, wearing an off-white canvas shoe.
A drunk or a drug user, probably. Well, time to show them off the premises. I run a respectable business here. She strode resolutely to her back kitchen door, pausing only long enough to snag a long-handled broom on her way out. She’d had to deal with rough types before; it came with the territory.
Silently, cautiously, she tiptoed around the corner and into the short alley between her kitchen and her neighbor’s. That’s where she kept her bins, out of the way of the occasional car or truck trying to shoehorn its way down the back drive. Broom held high, she advanced purposefully on the recumbent figure sprawled gracelessly amidst her upended bins.
“Who are you?” she demanded, surprised that her voice wasn’t shaking. “What are you doing out here? This is private property! Leave immediately or I’ll be forced to call the bobbies!”
No response. She leaned in to get a better look at the intruder by the meager light streaming out through her kitchen window. It seemed to be a tall figure, lean to the point of emaciation, with a mop of dark hair, dressed in stained and torn second-hand clothes. She carefully prodded the body with the butt end of her broom. It stirred, then bounded to its feet amidst the clatter of metal bins and lids, shaking its head as if to clear it. Martha let out a little shriek and reversed the broom, beating the figure over the head with it repeatedly.
“Get out, get out, get out!” she screamed, punctuating each command with a blow from her broom bristles. The young man (she could see now) fended off the strikes with whip thin, but strong, arms, crying out, “Please! Please, I’m not going to hurt you! I just fell, that’s all! Please, stop!”
Martha held her blows as she peered more closely at this scarecrow of a man. In the light, she could dimly see that he was probably in his mid-to-late 20’s, looking young enough that he could have been a student at uni with her own boys. This was no coarse tosser of a lad who would break into homes and knock little old ladies down in the street for their purses. No, this lad was well-spoken and educated. But what was he doing out here, on a chilly night, with no jacket, thread-bare clothes, and no hat or gloves?
“Madam, please, if I may be on my way, I shall trouble you no further,” he added, sincerely, in one of the loveliest voices she had ever heard.
I was right. He is uni, and probably well-brought-up, as well. She lowered her broom, standing it on its butt end while she regarded him, hand on hip. She knew she stood between him and freedom, yet he never once made a threatening move or gesture. He stood there, head down, rubbing his arms in the cool breeze that had penetrated this dark space. Martha thought long and hard before making what her husband would have described as “a plonker’s decision”.
“Come on, you,” she said, jerking her head toward the kitchen door. “It’s warm inside and I’ve some food in the fridge, if you’d like.”
The young man’s head jerked up in surprise. In the light she could see a thin face with high, sharp cheekbones, a patrician nose, and unusually full lips. The eyes remained in shadow. He dipped his head and said, “That would be greatly appreciated, Madam”.
Martha turned and led the way to her door, holding it open in welcome for the young man. He slid inside with the grace of a dancer…or a cat burglar. She entered behind him, closed the door, and locked it, before returning the broom to its resting place. When she turned, she saw the young man standing in the middle of her kitchen, rubbing his hands together and looking around the room, seeming to be taking in every detail.
“Sit down, lad,” Martha urged. The young man stepped over to her kitchen table and pulled out a chair, sitting down gingerly, as if unsure that his limbs would cooperate. She was certain he had to have banged himself up proper in his fall. “Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“Biscuits?”
“If you would be so kind…”
She turned to her stove to reheat the water already in the kettle, then reached for a cup and fresh tea for brewing. She looked over her shoulder and was surprised to find the young man gazing at her quite intently. His eyes, which she could finally see clearly, were not large but they were, in their own way, fascinating, drawing one’s attention immediately—light-colored, cat-like, piercing, inquisitive. She smiled awkwardly before turning her attention back to the whistling kettle and preparing a fresh cup of tea for her guest. After procuring a plate full of biscuits, she carried them to the table, steaming cup in hand, to place both in front of the young man. Taking the kettle in hand, she added some hot water to her own, now-ice-cold, tea.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You are very kind.” His voice was a deep, mellifluous baritone, his accent cultured..
“It’s no trouble, dear, I…”
A sudden realization struck her. She turned and asked, “What did you call me?”
“Mrs. Hudson, first name Martha. That IS your name, isn’t it?” he smiled in an odd fashion.
“Well, yes, but how…”
“You also have a husband who is a drunk, a cheat, and an abuser, and at least two sons who play sports. You own your home but rent to the store out front and a flat upstairs…” he ticked off each observation with practiced ease before taking a deep draught of his tea and shoving a biscuit in his mouth, dribbling crumbs.
Martha, holding her re-warmed tea with both hands—they seemed to be shaking for some reason—wandered over to the table and sat down opposite her guest. Those searching eyes followed her, seeming to dissect her and tease out her innermost secrets. She felt…exposed, yet not threatened. It almost seemed to be a kind of game to this lad.
“That was…how did you know all that?” she wondered aloud. “The rentals, my husband, my boys…”
The lad shrugged. “It’s easy, if one learns how to observe what is around oneself and draw the appropriate conclusions. First, the rentals. I am familiar with this neighborhood and have seen the shop out front. In the open drawer on your sideboard, you have stored your mortgage papers and some other documents relating to the renting of space to the coffeeshop. There is a “For Rent” sign outside your door. Knowing the layout of these buildings, I know that the store takes up much of your first floor space, so you must have rooms on one of the other floors. The third floor seldom has a kitchen but does have a bedroom with a bath; therefore, it would be most expedient for you to use this kitchen and live on the incomplete third floor, saving the second floor, which IS a self-contained flat, as a rental.
“Second, the husband. The abuse is obvious from the fading bruises around your neck, barely concealed by your scarf, in the form of two rather large hands, along with a few pieces of broken furniture hastily mended. Once, I saw a man come out of this residence, to be joined by some young woman of, shall we say, questionable repute, who has handed him something in a paper bag that looked very much like a liquor bottle. The same man is known in the surrounding pubs as a brawler and a bully; indeed, I have run afoul of him myself upon occasion, though I doubt he would remember me. I have also seen him talking to several well-connected drug figures in the area and surreptitiously handing them packets of drugs and/or cash.”
Third, your two sons. They have left two very different-sized athletic shoes kicked in the corner, not something your husband would wear. Plus, while they may fulfill your request to wipe their feet off when they come in, it’s obvious that they frequently miss the mat and have left multiple scuff marks on your floor, as well as footsteps outside your door, caked in dirt.” He finished by popping another biscuit into his mouth and downing the rest of his tea.
Martha sat back, astounded. This young man had rattled all these observation off so casually, as though it was an everyday event. She watched as he wolfed down some more biscuits and licked the crumbs from his fingers. He caught her eye and stopped, self-consciously, like a child caught doing something naughty. “I…forgive my manners. My Mum would be appalled.”
“You eat like you haven’t had a meal in days,” she observed.
He nodded. “Unfortunately, all too true. I…forget to eat sometimes.” He smiled awkwardly, but his eyes never lost their keenness.
“Would you like something? I have some leftover cottage pie,” Martha offered. Before the lad could protest, she waved her hand and said, “It’s no trouble, really. You look like you could use something substantial, not just biscuits.”
His face brightened. “Yes, please, Mrs. Hudson.” A pause, then he asked, “Was I right?”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Right? Oh, yes! Yes, you were, on all counts. Incredible! My sons are at uni right now, so they’re not here. That was…I’ve never seen the like.” She shook her head in disbelief, completely missing the satisfied smile on her guest’s face. As she pulled the leftovers from her fridge, it suddenly hit her. She turned to the young man and said, “You know, I don’t even know your name.”
“Oh, it’s Sherlock, Madam. Sherlock Holmes.”