Reading sample A Spider's Web

CHAPTER 1

Dr Watson sighed as I took the top off my boiled egg. ‘Doesn’t Holmes have a new client this morning?’

‘He does,’ I replied, scooping out the white of the egg with the tip of my spoon. ‘But not until ten o’clock.’ I smiled encouragingly at Dr Watson. ‘I’m sure he will tell you all about it when you return from work, John.’

‘That’s if he remembers,’ grumbled the doctor. He finished his piece of toast and dabbed his moustache with a napkin. ‘By then he could have embarked on a new monograph, or have been summoned to the Yard by Lestrade or Gregson.’

I couldn’t help a grin. ‘It’s possible. I’ll get the details if I catch him before you do.’

‘Thank you, Nell.’ He scrutinised me. ‘I take it you’re off to the Excelsior Hotel this morning. Your dress tells me as much.’

‘I am indeed,’ I said. ‘You have learnt from the master.’

Since the number of cases coming my way had increased, and to save wrangling with Sherlock over access to the consulting room, I had taken to meeting my clients in a select range of hotels. I met my more well-heeled clients at the Corinthian, those who were clearly of straitened means at the Mansfield, and everyone else at the Excelsior or the Queen’s Hotel. For my own safety, and also to decrease the risk of an embarrassing encounter outside working hours, I also adopted a different hair colour and style of dress in each venue. Today my hair would be dark brown and pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, but that would take place after breakfast.

The door creaked and Sherlock entered, still in his dressing gown.

‘Really, Holmes!’ spluttered Dr Watson.

‘Good morning, Watson,’ said Sherlock, grinning. ‘Shouldn’t you be on your way to the hospital by now?’

‘Shouldn’t you be dressed by now?’ countered the doctor. ‘I assume you aren’t planning to receive your client dressed like that.’

Sherlock mused. ‘It would save on the laundry bill,’ he said, and laughed at Dr Watson’s expression. ‘It would not affect my deductive capabilities one jot, Watson, and you know it.’

‘Professional is as professional does,’ said Dr Watson, wiping his moustache again. ‘What sort of case is it today?’

‘I’ll find out when my client arrives,’ Sherlock said nonchalantly, as Martha set a plate of bacon and eggs before him. ‘He was circumspect in his letter, so I am afraid the grisly details will have to wait.’

‘And then…?’ prompted Dr Watson.

‘Monograph,’ said Sherlock firmly. ‘The recent glut of cases has forced me to neglect it, and I want to finish the draft this week.’ He smiled at Dr Watson’s downturned mouth. ‘I thought you would be glad of a rest, Watson. You’re always complaining that you haven’t time to write up my cases, and here is a golden opportunity.’ He turned to me and his eyes narrowed. ‘Isn’t today one of your shop days, Nell?’

‘It is,’ I said, ‘but I have a meeting first. It shouldn’t take more than an hour, and I shall go on to the department store afterwards. I’ve wired Evie to let her know.’

‘On that note,’ said Dr Watson, rising, ‘I shall leave you two busy bees alone. Good hunting to both of you.’ He pushed his chair in and strode off with the air of a man who has his own important business to attend to.

‘Good hunting?’ Sherlock murmured, his eyes wide with amused delight.

‘Don’t be hard on John,’ I murmured reprovingly. ‘He has our best interests at heart, and he supported us when things were much more difficult than they are now.’

‘I know,’ said Sherlock, loading his fork with egg and bacon. ‘But the idea of us as intrepid hunters in the vast jungle of London – especially you, dressed like that – is amusing, to say the least.’

‘Camouflage, my dear,’ I said, leaning across and kissing his cheek. ‘Camouflage.’

Half an hour later I was in a hansom and approaching my destination. The cab slowed and I got my purse out. An unexpected wait due to an overturned carriage at Hyde Park Corner meant I would have to hurry if I were to be my usual five minutes early.

‘Here we are, ma’am,’ said the cabbie, and winked. ‘Enjoy your coffee.’ I had travelled with him many times, in a variety of guises, and while I was reasonably sure he was unaware of the nature of my business, I felt he wished me well.

‘Thank you,’ I said, and put the fare into his hand. I consulted my watch: four minutes early. It would have to do.

As soon as I entered the quiet, sparsely populated room where morning coffee was served, I saw my client waiting for me, clutching her napkin in both hands. Mrs Taylor was in her early twenties, carefully dressed, with big dark eyes that formed a startling contrast with her neatly coiled blonde hair.

‘Good morning,’ I said, smiling pleasantly. ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? Are you well?’

‘I have barely slept for worrying,’ she replied. ‘Please, Mrs Hudson, tell me the worst. I can bear it.’

‘In that case,’ I said decisively, ‘I shall tell you that it is not what you feared.’ A waiter hovered at my elbow. ‘Could I have a cup of milky coffee, please,’ I said to him.

‘Of course, madam, and a cake?’

‘Not today; it is not so long since I had breakfast.’

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ said Mrs Taylor. ‘Could I have a black coffee, please. Nothing else for me.’

The waiter still hovered, looking hopefully at me, though he knew I never ordered cake in the morning. I had grown tired of being fed treats when I had returned from a month-long undercover case a year before. Even now, the sight of a chocolate eclair revolted me.

The waiter gave up and disappeared, and I took out my notebook and opened it. ‘As I said, Mrs Taylor, things are in no way as bad as you feared. At least, that is my opinion.’ I turned to my initial notes on her case. ‘You came to me, having been married for six months, and told me you were worried that your husband was . . . straying. Your grounds for this suspicion were that he was finding more and more reasons to spend his evenings from home. He said he had joined a theatre club, yet was vague about the plays he had seen and what he thought of them, and moreover would never attend the theatre with you though it is a passion of yours. He also said he had joined a gentlemen’s club, yet could say little of what he did there except that he conversed with other members. Apart from this, you said he was a model husband.’

Deliberately noisy footsteps announced that the waiter was returning with our coffee.

‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Taylor, when he had departed. ‘You’re sure it isn’t – that?’ She bit her lip. ‘Oh dear. I feel terrible.’

I smiled. ‘I am sure. I have shadowed your husband over the past week, and on three of the four nights when he went out, he was at the music hall.’

Mrs Taylor’s spoon clattered in her saucer and she goggled at me. ‘The music hall?’ she said in a shocked whisper. ‘He promised he wouldn’t. He knows how I hate it!’

I suppressed a frown; this was not quite the reception of my news that I had anticipated. ‘On each occasion that Mr Taylor attended the music hall, he behaved impeccably, was not rowdy, did not speak to any women, and indulged in no more than two pints of beer.’

Mrs Taylor wrinkled her nose. ‘Not beer.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ I said. ‘On Thursday, Mr Taylor met with two friends at a chop house.’ Mrs Taylor looked ready to swoon. ‘They played cards after their meal for small stakes, and Mr Taylor came out the winner. From my observations I would say that he is possibly a regular but controlled gambler, and I do not think you have anything to worry about on that score.’

‘My life is ruined,’ said Mrs Taylor, staring past me and no doubt visualising all sorts of horrors.

I sighed; I had not thought she would take it so badly. ‘Mrs Taylor, your life is not over.’ I laid a hand on hers. ‘Far from it. You said yourself that in other respects your husband is exemplary. All this means is that his taste in amusements differs from yours, and that rather than upset you by insisting you attend events you do not enjoy, he has decided that pursuing his entertainments in secret is the only option.’

‘It’s so low!’ she said, and she was close to tears.

‘That is your opinion,’ I said firmly. ‘Plenty of people enjoy the music hall, regardless of what you think, and perhaps they would consider your liking for the theatre equally strange.’

‘I should have known when he told me he was going to see Coriolanus,’ she said, in a low, bitter tone.

Under the table, I dug my fingernails into my palm to keep from laughing. ‘I agree, Mrs Taylor, that he should not have deceived you, but you left him little choice other than to be bored and miserable.’

Her eyes met mine. ‘I don’t want him to be bored and miserable. I just want him to enjoy the same things as I do.’

‘Perhaps that will come with time, and also with trying things together that are new to one or both of you. A Gilbert and Sullivan opera, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps,’ she echoed, and looked brighter. ‘But what do I do about – you know?’

I sipped my coffee. ‘What I would suggest,’ I said, ‘is for you to mention that a friend saw him at the music hall the other day. Don’t accuse him; just make the observation. Then say that you don’t mind, but you would like to go out with him sometimes too, and suggest a light play or a concert he might enjoy.’

‘He doesn’t mind paintings,’ said Mrs Taylor thoughtfully. ‘We could go to the National Gallery on Saturday, then out to dinner.’ She sighed. ‘I have been terribly selfish, haven’t I? Especially when he works so hard.’

‘Marriage is a compromise,’ I said, smiling, as Mrs Taylor called the waiter back and said that actually, she would have a cake after all. I’m so glad that, comparatively speaking, I am independent, I thought. I ordered another coffee to be companionable, and turned to the page of my notebook which set out my fee.

CHAPTER 2

Once Mrs Taylor’s worries were eased she proved surprisingly loquacious, even while eating cake, and it was a good half hour more before I was able to bring our meeting gently to a close. I strove not to mind, for she had heaped praise upon me, paid my fee in cash without a single quibble, and stated that she would recommend me to any of her friends who found themselves in a predicament which might require a detective. A good morning’s work, indeed, but it did not alter the fact that I would have to hurry. As soon as I left the hotel, I set off at a fast walk towards the nearest branch of my bank.

My usual custom following the successful resolution of a case was to visit the bank and pay in my fee, minus anything under a pound. This ensured that if I were attacked by a robber, they would come away with little. It had never happened, but I felt it best to take precautions. I kept a stock of money at home for emergencies and unexpected outgoings, of course, but I much preferred the idea of travelling light as I went about my daily business. In case someone did attack me, I invariably secured my hat with a long, sharp pin which would make any miscreant think twice – and I was prepared to use the self-defence skills which I had persuaded Sherlock to teach me.

My other habit on completing a case was to visit Marylebone post office to see if there were any letters for me. When I had first resolved to take the plunge and set up on my own behalf, I tested the waters by taking out a small, inexpensive advertisement in an evening newspaper:

Dr Watson had been utterly horrified when he spotted the advertisement and realised what I was up to. He had gone as far as to bang on the door of my sitting room, burst in the moment I replied, and thrust the newspaper under my nose, jabbing at the offending words with his forefinger. ‘Nell, I must protest. You cannot advertise yourself in a newspaper like a purveyor of patent medicine or a fortune teller! What were you thinking?’

I counted to ten before I answered, since I could already feel my gorge rising at his tone. ‘John, no one will seek out my services if they don’t know I exist. While Mr Poskitt and Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson all said that they intended to put business my way, the fact remains that so far, to misquote Mr Micawber, nothing has turned up.’ I paused for breath, and spoke more gently. ‘I believe there is a place for a female detective in London, and I intend to be that detective.’

Dr Watson regarded me, still breathing hard. ‘What does Holmes think? Does he know about this?’

‘He knows,’ I said. ‘In fact, he helped me write the advertisement, and he is interested in the outcome.’

‘I am surprised at you both,’ snapped Dr Watson, and left, shutting the door none too gently behind him.

I smiled as I hurried past a postbox, remembering my first trip to the post office following the placing of the advertisement. I had left it three days, on the grounds that someone might have written by then. If they had, a prompt reply would be appropriate. On the other hand, if I had received no letters, then three days was no time at all, when you thought about it. That, at any rate, was what I told myself. Waiting those three days was agony, and there had been several occasions when I had had to set my jaw and march myself past the post office in the course of running another errand.

I had chosen to make my expedition at four o’clock, when I believed the post office would be comparatively quiet. I was correct in my assumption, as it was almost deserted, but this did not make things any easier. I still had to approach the counter and address the stern-faced clerk, who was already eyeing me as if he knew I would be a nuisance.

‘My name is Mrs Hudson,’ I said, leaning forward and speaking quietly, though no one was near.

‘What?’ he barked. ‘Can’t hear you, madam.’

I tried again, a little louder. ‘My name is Mrs Hudson, and I wondered if there were any letters for me, care of the post office.’

He looked at me as if I must be under a delusion, then walked to a row of pigeonholes behind the counter, each marked with a letter of the alphabet. He reached into H and brought out a small bundle of perhaps five or six letters. My heart leapt before I remembered it was quite possible that none of them were for me.

The clerk peered at the bundle he was holding, walked through the letters with his first two fingers, then pulled one out and approached me. Someone has answered my advertisement! I beamed at him, which had no effect whatsoever.

The clerk reached the counter, put down the bundle of letters and pushed them towards me. ‘Your letters, madam.’

‘Good heavens,’ I murmured, looking at the array of envelopes. Two white, two blue, one lavender. What lay within? I wanted to rip them open and devour them then and there. Instead I took a deep breath, murmured ‘Thank you very much,’ and in a fit of optimism, bought ten postage stamps.

And so my career as a female detective truly began. Sherlock was pleased and also astounded when I burst into the consulting room waving my letters (of course I had first checked with Martha that he was not busy with a client). ‘This is quite something, Nell,’ he said, as I plumped myself down and ripped open the first envelope.

Even Dr Watson managed a grudging ‘Well done’ when I told him at dinner that I had had five replies to my advertisement and intended to take three of the cases, although he qualified his congratulations with the pronouncement that I must be careful, not accept any case that might put me in danger, and make sure I was paid promptly in cash. I decided to take this as a sign that he was concerned for my welfare, rather than that he thought I was completely incompetent. Naturally, the day on which I solved my first case and received my first fee was sweetest of all. I celebrated by buying myself a silver letter opener, in anticipation of the business to come.

I reached the imposing stone building that was the nearest branch of the London and Westminster Bank, and the doorman tipped his hat to me. I entered, produced my bank book, and made my deposit with the minimum of fuss and ceremony, though the bank clerk seemed inclined to chat, and on a normal day I would have indulged him. My business concluded, I smiled at the increased total in my bank book, emerged into the crisp autumnal air, and hurried to Debenham and Freebody, which was only a few more minutes’ walk away.

My position at the department store had undergone a change since I first worked there as a ‘lady detective’. In those days I had had to negotiate hard with Mr Turner, the sceptical manager of the store, to receive a wage above that of a normal shop assistant. However, I had soon earned him back my salary and more through apprehending pilferers and preventing thefts.

When I had forsaken my position to take on a special assignment, the shop assistants, led by my friend Evie, had performed the role turn and turn about in my absence and achieved considerable success, so that on my return I assumed there would be no work left for me.

However, in Mr Turner’s case my absence had made his heart grow fonder, and he proposed that I return for a few hours a week, at a very respectable fee, as a sort of mentor for his assistants. As Evie had already secured a pay increase for every assistant who took on detection duties, I was only too happy to accept.

‘Morning, Mrs H,’ said Alf, raising his peaked cap and opening the door. He had seen me in so many different outfits that my frequent changes in appearance did not faze him one bit.

‘Good morning, Alf,’ I said. ‘How are things?’

He considered. ‘Plenty of people through the door,’ he said, at last. ‘Although Evie’s been rather exercised this week. I daresay she’ll tell you.’

I laughed. ‘I’m sure she will.’

Once inside the store I checked my watch and was pleased to find that I was two minutes early for my meeting with Evie. My pace slowed as I strolled through the various departments, smiling at the assistants standing at their counters ready to serve, noting who was masquerading in plain clothes as a customer today, and of course, admiring the merchandise. I rarely admitted it to myself, but the other reason why I banked my fees as soon as possible was so that I wasn’t tempted to spend my hard-earned money on silk stockings and accessories. I had had a terrible weakness for gloves ever since returning to Baker Street, as it had taken several months of loving care until my hands were fit to be seen in polite company.

I tore myself away from a beautiful pair of cream kid gloves with navy-blue embroidery at the wrists, and made for the door at the back of the store which led to Mr Turner’s office. Business before pleasure, I thought – though if I got the chance in the course of my work today, I might well enquire the price of those gloves.