Reading sample A House of Mirrors

CHAPTER 1

When would he come?

I checked my watch for perhaps the fourth time in five minutes. Ten past two. I risked a peek at the street outside, buzzing with life on the crisp winter day; carriages rattling past, costermongers shouting their wares, nannies with perambulators, and couples arm-in-arm.

Don’t be silly, Helen, I scolded myself. A grown woman of twenty-eight, behaving like a little girl on her birthday morning! I knew full well that between two and half past was the agreed time. I picked up a novel, Edwin Drood, to occupy myself, but my eyes kept straying from its pages to the window and the world beyond.

The doorbell pealed as though the person ringing it was annoyed at being kept waiting.

It was a quarter past two precisely. Billy ran down the stairs, and the front door creaked.

I rose, straightened my skirts, and glanced in the looking glass. All was in order except my expression, which was altogether too excited for a landlady-in-waiting. I breathed deeply to calm my racing heart, but the effort was wasted as I heard Billy’s light steps in the passageway.

‘Come!’ I called.

Billy entered, grinning. ‘He’s here, ma’am. The man to see the rooms. Name of Holmes. Shall I show him in?’

‘Yes please, Billy.’

Mr Holmes was a tall, spare young man, well-dressed in a frock-coat and top hat. Despite his height, he reminded me of an intelligent bird as his eyes darted around the room. He took my hand in a firm but delicate grip. ‘Mrs Hudson, I am sorry for the circumstances which have led you to take in a lodger.’ His hand was slim and long-fingered, but mottled with stains and little scars. Mr Holmes saw me examining his hand, and gently withdrew it.

I looked down at my black-trimmed dress. ‘Thank you, Mr Holmes.’ I think my voice remained steady, but inside me emotions were fighting to break free. There was excitement at what I was about to do, misgiving that it might be too early, curiosity about my visitor, and fear that this might not be what Jack would have wanted. But excitement and curiosity were winning the race. ‘Would you like me to show you the rooms?’

He inclined his head. ‘I would.’

I had expected Mr Holmes to ask questions as I showed him the suite of rooms which were to let, but he was quiet. I found myself babbling about breakfast preferences and domestic matters. ‘There are two bedrooms, both opening off the sitting room…’

‘Two bedrooms?’ Mr Holmes raised his eyebrows. ‘I was not aware of that.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I am sorry, I thought you had been informed.’

‘No, Lestrade didn’t mention it…’ He wandered round the first bedroom, looking outside, opening drawers and cupboards, inspecting the washstand and the mirror. ‘The room would suit me admirably, though. A good view of the street outside, excellent natural light, plenty of space for clothes…’ He walked back into the sitting room, and I followed. ‘How much do you propose to let the rooms for?’

I should say four guineas a week. That was what Inspector Lestrade said the agent had advised. ‘Three pounds ten shillings?’

Mr Holmes let out a low whistle. ‘That is more than I can afford at present, Mrs Hudson. I am in the process of establishing my practice, which is an expensive business, and my income is not steady as yet. The sitting room would be an excellent consulting room, though, and the address most respectable.’

‘What is your profession, Mr Holmes?’ I looked at him afresh, to deduce what sort of work he might do. Nothing manual, judging from his hands – but what of the stains and scars on them? Could he be a surgeon? But then he would not need a consulting room. That ruled out a scientist, too. He might be a sculptor, or another sort of artist, but then he would require a studio…

A low laugh shook me out of my speculations. ‘You are trying to work me out, Mrs Hudson!’ Mr Holmes looked at me from under his eyebrows. ‘You won’t guess, though. As far as I know, I am the only one of my kind. Your best clue is my connection to Inspector Lestrade.’

‘Ah.’ That explained the inspector’s ready acquiescence when I had proposed taking a lodger, and his recommendation of the gentleman standing before me. ‘You don’t look like a policeman.’ I tried to smile, but my mouth refused to obey. Jack was in the sitting room with me, striding in with a smell of London fog and smoke and outside about him. He would pull off his gloves, fling himself into the basket-chair and launch into a detailed account of the day’s investigations. Perhaps another woman would have been bored, but I loved every minute of it, just as I loved Jack.

‘Mrs Hudson, are you quite well? You looked a little…’

I waved a hand. ‘I am quite all right, Mr Holmes. Just a – well, a memory.’

‘Good, good.’ He seemed a little distracted too, as if debating something with himself. ‘Mrs Hudson, I shall be frank with you. I am setting up as a consulting detective. That is why I am seeking rooms, and I have seen none that would suit me so well as those you offer. I take it that you do not mind callers? Frequent callers?’

Now I was back on safe ground. ‘No, not at all. I am likely to receive more visitors myself soon.’ I indicated my half-mourning.

‘And your staff would provide meals, and clean the rooms? Is that included in the price?’

I nodded.

‘Then it is settled. I shall attempt to find a partner in these rooms, and contact you if I am successful.’ Mr Holmes rose.

‘If you can find someone to share the cost, I might be able to reduce the price to three guineas a week.’ The words shot out of my mouth, and I blushed.

‘Mrs Hudson, that would be extremely kind of you. I shall begin my enquiries immediately.’

I rang for Billy to show Mr Holmes out. Then I sank back onto the settee and clapped my hands to my burning cheeks. Soon I would become a landlady to two complete strangers, an occupation I knew nothing of. Soon I would be able to start my life again, and Mr Holmes had no idea that he was a key part of my plans.

CHAPTER 2

Helen Hudson is my third name. I was born Helen Marsden, though everyone called me Nelly. When I married Jack I became Nell Villiers. And now I am Mrs Helen Hudson, for my own safety.

The day that Jack disappeared began like any other. We breakfasted early. I was still in my dressing gown but Jack was fully dressed; not in uniform, but in what he called an ‘unremarkable suit’, designed not to attract attention.

‘Which case is it today, Jack?’ I poured him a cup of tea and took another piece of toast.

‘Opium den in Limehouse, Nell. Today’s the day we crack it open.’ Jack smacked his fist into his palm.

‘You haven’t mentioned it before.’

‘That’s because it’s one of Napper’s cases. He’s invited me along.’ Jack crossed to the bureau and took his gun from the top drawer. He emptied the cartridges out of the barrel onto the table, and held it up to the light.

‘Do you have to do that here?’ I got up to clear the breakfast plates.

‘I’m going straight to Limehouse, Nell, and I can’t afford a misfire.’ Jack cocked the gun and smiled in satisfaction at the click.

‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ I said, as he reloaded the gun. ‘Please be careful.’

‘Don’t worry, Napper and I will look out for each other, and we’ve got back-up.’ He holstered the gun. ‘Oh, that reminds me!’ Jack put on his overcoat and rummaged in the pocket, bringing out a flattened roll of papers tied with string. ‘The inspector asked me to give you this. I completely forgot last night, ’cos you were asleep when I got home.’

‘What is it?’ I took the bundle and worked on the string. ‘Statements?’

‘Yes, from the robbery in Bow. Lestrade asked if you would go through them and write him a short report. There’s a map at the back. Now, I must be off.’ Jack took the last slice of toast from the rack and kissed me on the cheek. The stubble he had missed that morning scraped at me.

‘Will you be late tonight?’

He paused at the door. ‘No, this should be a quick one. Expect me home for six; seven at latest.’ He clapped his hat on his head and pulled the brim down. ‘Goodbye, Nell.’

I fetched a notebook and pen, poured myself another cup of tea and pulled the papers towards me. There were at least fifty pages to work through. I marked the jeweller’s shop on the map, and turned to his statement. After a few minutes I placed a hand on the tiny flutters in my stomach. I had meant to tell Jack the night before, but by the time he got home I had already fallen asleep. Then I had resolved that I would tell him this morning, but the gun on the table had put me off. I’ll tell him tonight, I thought. I’ll cook him a steak, and I’ll tell him tonight.

By midday I had read the statements, marked the locations, plotted witnesses’ movements, and listed contradictions and confirmations. I was ready to untangle the knotted snarl of the various accounts and weave them into a report. But my eyes ached from poring over the handwritten pages, my lower back twinged from sitting still so long, and I was starving. I ate a cheese sandwich then made another, even though the cheese tasted a little sour. Little Jack or little Helen was having a strange effect on my appetite. The cake tin was empty, which was perhaps a good thing. Then I remembered the steak I was planning to cook that night. A walk to the butcher’s shop would do me good.

‘Mrs Villiers!’ The butcher twinkled at me from behind his counter. The smells of sawdust, blood and meat mingled to make me quite faint, and I sat down hurriedly.

‘Could I have two beefsteaks please, Mr Jones?’

‘On a Friday, ma’am? Of course!’ The butcher selected a piece of beef. ‘A big one and a small one?’

‘Could I have two the same, please?’

He raised his eyebrows, and selected a knife. ‘I’ll put these on your account, Mrs Villiers. Will you take them now?’

‘I shall, thank you.’

At the greengrocer I purchased tomatoes and runner beans, and on my walk back home I bought two chocolate éclairs at the bakery. The shopgirl laid them side by side in a white cardboard box, and tied it with a blue ribbon. I wondered whether that meant I was carrying a boy, and almost laughed aloud at my silliness.

I climbed the few steps to the front door with a sense of relief that I was home; even the shortest journey was becoming a chore. The time was ripe to tell Jack the good news, before he could guess. I had enjoyed having my own little secret, though.

I put my purchases away, stirred the fire back into life, and settled to write my report, stopping only for tea and biscuits. By four o’clock I was making a fair copy. At a quarter to five I blotted the last sheet and placed my report in an envelope, ready for Jack to deliver to Inspector Lestrade. My right index finger was ink-stained, and my hair was coming down on one side. I smiled as I imagined delivering my news to Jack in such a state, and went to tidy myself and change my dress. I turned this way and that in front of the glass to see if I looked any different. Despite my near-constant hunger, I could still tight-lace. I took my hair down and brushed it out, and redid it into its bun on top of my head. Perhaps, if Jack was in the humour, he would unpin it for me later… I sat down in the basket-chair and picked up the Illustrated London News to try and distract myself from the vivid picture forming in my mind.

I started as the clock struck six, and looked down guiltily at the magazine, open at page five. I had dozed off again. At least Jack hadn’t come home and caught me asleep. I walked into the kitchen and saw the parcel of steaks. Perhaps I should undo it – or I could wait, and unwrap it as a surprise for Jack, before my big surprise. I poked the fire, which had burned low, resumed my seat, and took up the magazine again.

A quarter past six. He would be home soon. He had said so.

Half past six. Jack had said between six and seven o’clock.

Twenty to seven. He said he’d be home on time!

At five minutes to seven I was pacing up and down. It would serve him right if I cooked the steaks and left his to grow cold. I wondered if he had talked Napper into a pint of ale at the Ship and Shovell, to celebrate their success. After all, Jack didn’t know I had an announcement to make. I poked the fire and sat down. The last thing I wanted was to seem like a nag, or a clinging vine. Once Jack knew about the baby, he would be home on time every night.

Or would he? We had never really spoken about children, beyond agreeing that we would like to have them. Not too many: no more than four, or perhaps five. I had been the oldest girl in a family of nine, and I recalled how tired my mother had always looked as she tried to get us bigger ones to do our share, encouraging us to turn the mangle or make the beds while she darned and knitted and nursed the latest addition to the family. I loved the peace of my life with Jack, the freedom to read and chat and take walks in the park without a thousand tiny hands pulling at us…

Where was Jack? The clock said ten past seven. That was more than enough time to have a drink with Napper and walk home.

By half past seven I had given up any pretence and sat by the window. An omnibus rattled past. A gang of boys ran by. And then a cab, a hansom cab slowing to a stop outside our house. Jack hardly ever took cabs; he said that they were an extravagance.

The door of the cab opened, and Inspector Lestrade stepped down. My heart fell to the ground and shattered. He saw me at the window and bowed his head.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Villiers,’ he said, standing at the door with his hat off. ‘I have bad news.’