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“Mrs. Hudson is plotting something, Watson, trust me on this!”
I gave my friend a mildly surprised look. It was just a day before Christmas - the first we would be spending together - and I had thought the time would be given to peaceful, joyful atmosphere and relaxation.
It is as if I had forgotten who I shared my living quarters with.
Trust Holmes to find mysteries even within our home.
“Plotting?” I asked from my comfortable armchair by the fire. “Really, Holmes?”
“Yes!” Holmes gesticulated towards the window, his eyes bright. “I have observed her receiving several packages in a manner that clearly suggested she was being secretive about them, and when I went to look for them during the night-”
I straightened in my chair. “Holmes, this is really too much! You went spying through Mrs. Hudson’s things?”
“Not her personal things!” My friend defended himself. “I happened to observe-” I snorted at this, “where she put the packages. It was the pantry. Surely you cannot object to me entering the pantry?”
“It must certainly have been the first time you have done so since we have lived here,” I said dryly, “but yes, I suppose in general, there is not much to object to about that.”
“Well, you will never guess what I found!”
“What?” I asked, a little excited despite myself - was there a mystery in Baker Street?
“Oil!” Holmes exclaimed.
I stared at him. “Oil?”
“Yes, oil!” From the tone of his voice, he would think he discovered several dead bodies. “Much more oil than is normally necessary for cooking, I can tell you.”
I was silent for a moment, hoping for some further clarification, but when none was forthcoming, I said slowly: “Has it occurred to you that it might be for the Christmas dinner?”
He gave me scornful look. “Naturally it has, Watson. That is why I did some research, and found that no Christmas dish is made with such an extraordinary amount of oil.”
I blinked. “Truly, Holmes, you will be a homemaker in no time!” I said then, a little snidely I admit. “So what steps do you propose next in this intriguing investigation?”
He either did not notice my tone or he chose to ignore it as he replied: “There is no choice, Watson - we have to confront Mrs. Hudson!”
And there went my amusement. “You cannot be serious! Let the poor woman enjoy her Christmas preparations in peace,” I entreated.
He resolutely shook his head. “I cannot abide an unsolved mystery, Watson. Not under my own roof, and not over the holidays - it would entirely disturb the peaceful atmosphere, do you not think?”
“It is Mrs. Hudson’s roof,” I pointed out - something I felt had much bearing on this case.
“Still. Come on!”
Very reluctantly, I followed him down the stairs, an apology ready on my lips.
Holmes threw open the kitchen door.
Mrs. Hudson was there, alone, with no maids in sight, frying something on the stove. When we entered, she looked at us with such obvious surprise and shock that I, unwillingly, had to admit that there might have been something to Holmes’ theory - after all, while it was certainly shocking to see my friend in the kitchen, it wasn’t quite enough to warrant that expression.
“Mr. Holmes! She cried. “What are you doing here?”
“I should rather ask the same of you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said in the same predatory tone he used to speak to criminals - and by her face, I knew she recognized it too. “Why, pray tell, order so much oil? And what are you cooking here? Because this is certainly not Christmas food,” he added, stalking closer.
Again, I followed him almost against my will, and saw that there were strange blobs of dough in the pan.
“These are doughnuts, Mr. Holmes,” she said, and her voice shook just a little.
“And why the sudden desire to make doughnuts, Mrs. Hudson? And so many of them, judging by the amount of oil you received?”
She stayed silent.
“Now,” he began, “I understand that being suspicious about the food you make might seem like too much...but what if the doughnuts are only an excuse? I saw the amount of oil you have, Mrs. Hudson, and it truly is more that could reasonably be consumed in such a small household. And oil is highly flammable, of course - the one highly flammable material a lady of a house can order without appearing suspicious. So tell me, Mrs. Hudson...what are you planning?”
She wasn’t looking at him, and her hands were shaking a little. I felt pity for her and was about to tell Holmes to stop, when suddenly she straightened, took a deep breath, looked him in the eye and said in a clear voice: “I need the oil to prepare latkes and sufganiyot for celebrating Hanukkah, and also to light the menorah for every day of this festival week.”
The silence that followed this pronouncement was absolute, broken only by the oil sizzling on the pan.
Holmes broke it first.
“Oh,” he said only. He looked completely taken aback. In fact, never in my life have I seen him look so surprised, and so uncomfortable.
That, in turn, made me uncomfortable. “That is fine, Mrs. Hudson, of course,” I said quickly. “Please continue your holiday preparations, we will just go back upstairs.”
I pulled at Holmes’ sleeve, trying to get him back to our rooms, but he stood rooted to the spot, “Holmes,” I hissed at him.
“May I speak to you privately for a moment, Mrs. Hudson?” He asked.
The poor woman paled again, and I shot Holmes a poisonous look. He, however, remained unmoved, and they retreated into the downstairs parlour while I stood in the corridor, trying desperately to think of a way to salvage the situation.
I could not believe that Holmes - Holmes, of all people, who prized rationality above everything - would be one of those prejudiced against the Jewish people, and yet...what other explanation was there of his behavior? I truly did not wish to think so ill of my friend, but I spent the time waiting for him to come back out by preparing arguments and scoldings of him for his prejudice.
They emerged in about half an hour, and to my horror, Mrs. Hudson had tears in her eyes. “Holmes, what did you do?” I asked, enraged.
It was she, however, who shook her head and in a choked voice, said: “It is quite alright, Dr. Watson,” she said. “Mr. Holmes was very reassuring.”
Well, it certainly didn’t look like it!
“What did you tell her?” I insisted the moment we were back upstairs.
“The meeting was private for a reason, Watson,” he replied curtly.
“Well, forgive me if I insist on knowing if the man I have considered a friend is an anti-semite!” I said with some heat.
He stared at me for a moment, eyes wide, then came closer to take me by the shoulders: “Not that, Watson,” he said with emphasis. “Never that.”
I was a little calmed by his vehemence, but still I could not let it go entirely. “How do you explain your reaction, then?” I asked.
He let my shoulders go and went to the fireplace to stuff his pipe. There was a silence, but just as I was about to repeat my question more sharply, he said: “I was...horrified, Watson. Mrs. Hudson takes care of us and has the patience of an angel with all of my eccentricities, and yet at the slightest hint of suspicion I came and as good as threatened her, made her feel afraid and uncomfortable in her own home. I was...disgusted with myself.”
I stared at him, completely disarmed. I did not remember him ever speaking that honestly or emotionally to me before. The last of my anger disappeared, and only curiosity remained. “What did you tell her in the parlour, then?” I asked, coming closer.
Once more, there was a silence at first. “Did you know,” he asked then, “that she had so much oil - planned to make so much of the special foods - because she was making some for the refugees that have recently arrived here to escape the pogroms in Russia?”
I had not known, naturally, but remembering that would certainly account for the tears. I myself had been shaken when I read about the stories, and not many things shook me after my experience in Afghanistan.
I did not wish to remember the horrors now either, and so I merely said: “She would have hardly called you reassuring had you only talked of that.”
Another silence, and then: “I made her uncomfortable and afraid by discovering her secret,” Holmes said quietly. “So I revealed one of my own in turn, to make the ground equal between us once more, and as a sort of assurance that I will not betray her in any way.”
That took me aback. A secret of Holmes? Not that I was under the impression I knew everything about him - indeed, he rarely shared anything personal at all - but I never regarded it as secrets, more a natural reticence. It seemed I had been wrong.
“I don’t suppose you would tell me what it was?” I could not help asking.
“Once again, Watson,” he said, with a small, sardonic smile, “the meeting was private for a reason. Now excuse me, I have a small chemistry experiment I simply must run.”
And that was that. I got no more out of him on this subject - at least not at that point.
I found out what the secret he had told Mrs. Hudson was only years later, when, after I broke our kiss in the sitting room out of fear of her, he told me: “Oh, but she knows, Watson.
“She has known for a long time now.”