CHAPTER ONE

MARCH COMES IN WITH A ROAR

“I thought it was the end of the world.”

“Come now, darling,” I said, gently admonishing my wife. “Merely supply Mrs Hudson with the facts. There’s no need to over-egg the pudding.”

My former landlady peered over half-moon glasses and fixed me with the look she usually reserved for pedlars of dubious merchandise. “Over-egg the pudding? Doctor, what is it they say about men in glass houses? Remember, I’ve read those stories of yours. As has Mr Holmes.” She paused, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “What did he call them again?”

I sat back in my old armchair and nursed the glass of brandy that Mrs Hudson had pressed into my hand on our arrival.

“He thought they read very well,” I lied.

“Really? That’s not what I remember. Wasn’t it something about ‘sensationalised twaddle’?”

“Mrs Hudson,” my wife gasped, although I could tell by the amusement in her voice that the reprimand was anything but genuine.

I smiled despite myself. “That sounds… rather familiar.”

Mrs Hudson was not about to let me get away with it that easily. “So if the doctor’s worried about the pudding being over-egged, maybe we should head down to the kitchen and introduce Mr Pot to Mr Kettle.”

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Like the eggs themselves, I know when I am beaten.”

At that Mary laughed, and the sound warmed my frozen bones more than the fire that roared in the hearth.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Mrs Hudson said, an apology I immediately waved away.

“Mrs Hudson, who else is going to put me in my place while Holmes is on the continent? Now, Mary, please, the stage is yours.”

I sipped my brandy as Mary continued her tale. It began, like so many stories told by the English, with the weather. The February of 1891 had been surprisingly mild and March had looked as if it would follow in its predecessor’s footsteps. I had been reminded of the old saying that March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb. Little did we know how wild an animal it would be.

The morning of Monday 9 March had started pleasantly enough. The barometer that hung in the hallway of our Kensington home had been rising steadily, promising a fine and pleasant day. There had been reports of a smattering of snow elsewhere in the country, but nothing more than moderate winds were expected. Mother Nature, however, is a fickle mistress. As if to punish mankind for daring to predict her ways, she turned on us, sending a storm to end all storms.

“I was glad when John shut up the surgery,” Mary admitted to Mrs Hudson. “The windows were already rattling in their frames, and the snow falling hard.”

Mrs Hudson placed a hand on my wife’s arm. “I was caught out in it myself. Nearly lost my hat on Bickenhall Street.”

“We dined and retired to the sitting room, where John lit the fire. I tried to distract myself with needlepoint, but my attempts to relax were punctuated by the sound of roof tiles smashing on the road outside. John was at the hearth when it happened, adding more wood to the fire. An incredible squall thundered through the house, and before I knew what was happening the chimney stack fell through the ceiling. John was nearly crushed.”

Again I felt the need to interject. “I was able to throw myself clear.”

“But not before taking that bang to your head,” Mrs Hudson pointed out. Instinctively, my hand went to the bandage she had helped my wife apply.

“All that mattered was that Mary was safe,” I said. “We couldn’t stay at home with a gaping hole in the ceiling…”

“…so you came here,” Mrs Hudson said, completing my sentence in a manner she had picked up thanks to years of looking after Sherlock Holmes, a necessity if she wanted to get a word in edgeways. “And I’m glad you did. 221B is a fortress, always has been. You can return home when the storm has passed, and see what the damage is.”

My wife made to reply, but the thought made her voice catch in her throat. I put aside my glass and went to her, kneeling in front of the settee where so many clients had revealed their woes. “Try not to worry, my dear. I’m sure it won’t be half as bad as we imagine.”

As if to contradict me, the sounds of the tempest outside intensified. The journey across town had been traumatic. I had bundled my wife, maid and housekeeper into a cab and we had held on for dear life as the poor horses negotiated the snow-bound roads. The wheels of the carriage stuck fast not once, but three times on the way to my former lodgings in Baker Street. On the third occurrence, I was forced to disembark and help the beleaguered cabbie dig us out. Smashed tiles littered the freshly fallen snow, windows were blown out and gates hung loose from railings. It struck me that the only folk who would welcome the storm were the slaters, carpenters, glaziers and gardeners who would no doubt find themselves in gainful employment for many months to come.

By the time we neared Baker Street, the roads had become impassable. Paying our courageous cabbie, we braved the last part of the journey ourselves, crunching through snow that was already up to our knees. It was slow progress, our extremities chilled and our hearts low. I had never been so glad to see 221B in all my life, although the steps leading up to that well-remembered door were completely covered with snow.

Mrs Hudson had taken one look at us and ushered us in. We were soon ensconced in the cosy sitting room, drinks delivered into our hands and the fire stoked, while our staff warmed themselves in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen.

As the flames danced in the grate, Mary glanced furtively at the ceiling, as if expecting 221B’s own chimney breast to follow the example of its counterpart in Kensington and come crashing down.

I, myself, had never felt safer. Sitting here, with the paraphernalia of Holmes’s singular life all around, made me feel that nothing could touch me. From my friend’s eternally chaotic desk to that damned Persian slipper stuffed with tobacco, it was as if Holmes himself were with us, holding back the storm. Little did I know that the events of this calamitous evening would pale into insignificance compared with the perils that lay ahead.

And so we settled in for the night, holed up in these most familiar of surroundings. Mrs Hudson made a comfortable nest for our own housekeeper and maid in her rooms downstairs, while Mary would sleep in my old bedroom, the single bed meaning that I faced a night on the settee. The windows were secured against the elements and the curtains drawn. As Holmes’s grandfather clock chimed midnight, I lounged on the sofa reading a long-forgotten adventure novel I had found upstairs, Mary having retired some hours before.

The house was at peace, save for the wind whistling a merry tune down the chimney and the steady tick of the clock. Everything felt so familiar that I half expected the sound of Holmes’s Stradivarius to emanate from his empty bedchamber in the adjoining room.

Cocooned in a blanket, I forced myself to turn off the light when I realised that I had read the same paragraph three times. I extinguished the lamp, plunging the sitting room into darkness. Sleepily I turned over, trying to make myself comfortable, when an unexpected sound catapulted me back to my senses. I sat up, eyes wide in the gloom. Where had it come from? Not from the steps that led up to my old room, or from the narrow landing on the other side of the sitting-room door. I was suddenly aware of every creak and groan in the house. What had it been?

As nothing out of the ordinary happened, and the seconds turned into minutes, I relaxed. I lay back, laughing at myself nervously. What a fool I had become, jumping at shadows.

I closed my eyes… and there it was again. A tap, followed by a scrape, metal against wood. I leapt from the settee, nearly upsetting the lantern from the table beside me. I froze, listening intently.

There. It was coming from Holmes’s bedroom, not the scrape of horsehair against violin string, but that of a window being opened, followed by a great gust of wind that rattled the bedroom door in its frame.

The blood boiled in my veins. An opportunistic thief was using the storm to invade Holmes’s inner sanctum. How dare he!

Not wanting to alert the intruder to my presence, I took up the poker and crept forwards, the weapon raised in my hand, ready for action.

I paused by the door and listened to the creak of the floorboards on the other side of the wood. I reached for the doorknob, but it was pulled from my hand, the door opened from within.

A tall, lanky frame slammed into me and I tumbled back, the poker tumbling from my hand. My already injured head made contact with the floor and stars spiralled across my vision. My arm was pinned to the ground, a grip like iron grasping my wrist. Light bloomed in the darkness and I turned to see Mary rushing down the stairs from my former bedroom, a lantern in her hand.

“John?”

“Mary, stay back,” I warned, before I looked up at my attacker and the voice caught in my throat. Sharp grey eyes were staring down at me, thick eyebrows raised in amazement on a large domed forehead.

“What the devil are you doing sneaking around in the dark, Watson? exclaimed Sherlock Holmes. “I could have killed you!”