My wife was at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. I hovered at the door, not quite knowing what to do. I had heard her sobbing from the hallway, and knew all too well the reason for her despair. When Holmes and I had entered the house, she had appeared at the drawing-room door, her face ashen. What a sight we must have looked, blackened from the soot and as weary as the dead. I tried to explain what had happened, but she refused to meet my eye. Instead, she bustled around me, rushing upstairs to run our guest a bath, instructing us both to bundle together our smoke-infused clothes for washing. Holmes had insisted that I bathe first and retired to his room to smoke a pipe, as if his lungs had not yet sustained enough damage.
I washed and changed into my bedclothes and dressing gown to find that my apparel from the day had been dutifully whisked away, although the stink of the fire lingered in the bedroom. Then it was Holmes’s turn to freshen himself, although by the look of the man it would take more than a long soak in the tub. I wished I could march him straight back to the hospital, but considering everything that had happened I could scarcely be assured of his safety, even within the previously trusted walls of Charing Cross.
My head was still spinning with what he had suggested: that Mycroft himself was somehow involved in a conspiracy to stop our investigation. Just what had we stumbled upon?
My body ached for my bed, but I knew my mind would gain no rest until we had discussed the recent occurrences. Who had started the fire, and, worst of all, had they been aware that we were inside the building?
Such questions faded when I found my wife in the kitchen. For a moment, I considered leaving her to her grief, but immediately I scolded myself. What kind of man and husband would I be then?
“My dear,” I said, as softly as possible, stepping forward. She started, pushing back her chair to rise quickly, trying to hide her tears from me even as she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“There you are,” she sniffed. “Feeling more human, I hope? I shall fetch you a drink.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind.” I would hardly insult her intelligence by asking what was wrong. “We’re quite all right, you know, a little singed around the edges, but other than that—”
“It’s not funny, John.” She pulled away, her back to me. “None of this is funny. You could have been killed tonight.”
“But we weren’t. We—”
“Escaped?” Now she turned towards me, but the sorrow was gone from her face, to be replaced by anger. “Yes, this time. But what about tomorrow, or the day after that?”
“You don’t understand. After the day I’ve had—”
“After the day you’ve had? Do you have any idea about the day I’ve had, John? Yesterday, you were delivered to our door by a policeman, with your arm in a sling and suspected concussion. Today, I awake to find you’ve gone, sneaking out to heaven knows where before dawn.”
“It was hardly before dawn, and I went to the surgery, that’s all.”
“How was I supposed to know? How am I supposed to know anything any more? I’m your wife, John, but how many more days will it be until I become your widow?”
“There’s no need for that kind of talk.”
“Isn’t there? Yesterday, it was a knock on the head. Today it was near immolation. What will it be tomorrow? A knife in the back? I tell you, he won’t rest until he sees me put you in the ground!”
“Who won’t?”
“Who do you think?”
I had never witnessed such ire from my wife, and, while I knew that she had every right to be aggrieved, I was not about to be addressed in such a manner, not in my own home.
“Now, that’s enough. None of this is Holmes’s fault. I am your husband and—”
“Then start acting like one!” she cried, cutting me off. “None of this is Holmes’s fault? Now I know that knock on the head did some damage. Did any of this happen before you invited him to stay? Did we have policemen at the door morning, noon and night? Don’t you dare suggest otherwise, John Watson. That man up there will get you killed!”
“And what am I supposed to do, eh? Turn him out on the streets? Forget any of this happened?”
“He has a home to go to, doesn’t he? A life of his own that’s far enough away that it won’t turn yours upside down. This isn’t one of your silly little stories, John. This is real life. Our life, not some childish fantasy.”
Now she had gone too far. “Childish fantasy? They were real. You know that; all of them. They happened to me. To us. They’re part of who I am.”
“Who you were, John. They’re in the past now, or so they should be.”
I snorted with derision. “I didn’t see you complaining when my ‘silly little stories’ paid for this house!”
“A house for us to grow old in together,” she replied, “not for me to live in alone, grieving for you for the rest of my days.”
“Then perhaps you should leave!”
I don’t know who was more stunned by my words, my wife or I. She stood there, staring at me in disbelief. If my aim had been to shock her into silence, there was no doubt it had worked, although the words had tumbled from my mouth with little in the way of thought.
No, that wasn’t right. They hadn’t tumbled. I had spat them, like bullets from a gun, and I had no way of putting them back in the chamber.
She straightened, trying to retain her dignity, her lip trembling with both fury and sorrow. “Perhaps that would be the best, until things settle down,” she admitted. “I can go to my sister’s.”
I took an appeasing step forward. “I didn’t—”
She backed away, brushing an imaginary crease from her dress. “Millie’s been asking me to visit for months now,” she continued. “But I’ve been too busy. I can leave in the morning. Maybe stay for a week or two.”
She granted me no opportunity to argue. I had done enough of that already. Instead, she swept around me, head held high, and disappeared out of the kitchen.
“I’m going to bed,” was all she said as she climbed the stairs.
I stood in the kitchen, uncertain what to do. Should I go after her, attempt to dissuade her? I doubted it would do any good. She was a strong-willed woman. It was one of the reasons I had been attracted to her in the first place. Once her mind was made up, she stuck to her guns, come what may. Besides, and this was what truly twisted the knife, part of me was glad she wouldn’t be around. Oh, I told myself it was because she would be safe, miles away from whatever was happening here, but that was another lie, to myself this time. I knew I wanted to see this through to the bitter end, and had no need of the distraction of quarrels at home. I hated myself for admitting it, but it was true nonetheless.
How selfish had I become?
There was a sound from the drawing room. The creak of a chair. I walked down the hallway to find Holmes sitting in the armchair in his dressing gown, a book on his lap. He looked better, if still dreadfully pale, glancing up at me as I entered the room.
“You heard?” I asked.
“It was difficult not to, I am afraid.”
I eased myself into the other armchair, my shoulder still throbbing. Holmes closed the book. “I shall leave in the morning.”
“Holmes, we’ve already gone through this.”
“I am sure the Goring can find a room for me.”
“There is honestly no need.”
“Watson, if it is a choice between me and your wife, there is nothing more to discuss. I am only sorry that my involving you in this case has led to such hostilities at home.”
“You didn’t involve me. Tovey did. Besides, the one thing no one seems to be taking into account here is that I may want to find out what’s happening.” Glancing at the door, I lowered my voice and leant towards Holmes. “The last couple of days have seen me attacked, threatened and nearly burnt alive. I need to see this through to the end, Holmes. Besides, those men from the surgery, Burns and Hartley; if we don’t get to the bottom of this, how do I know they won’t crawl out of the woodwork again? No, it’s better my wife goes to see her sister. At least she’ll be out of the firing line. It really is better this way.”
Holmes regarded me in silence. I could see from his eyes that my resolution had pleased him, but he spoke not another word about it. Instead, he steepled his fingers in the way I had seen him do so many times during our long friendship. “Then let us review the evidence.”
I shrugged. “What evidence do we have? I doubt Scotland Yard will let us get near that infernal hand again and everything in the hospital was scrubbed clean even before it went up in flames.”
Holmes tapped the side of his head. “Everything I need to know about the hand is up here. No, we must turn our attention to our mystery collarbone.”
“The clavicle? But even that was taken—”
“By Burns and Hartley, yes, but you examined it, did you not? And would recognise a similar specimen?”
“Of course, if we could find such a thing.”
Holmes smiled thinly. “In that case, Watson, I believe we should look in your attic.”