so small an audience. As the sermon ended, the dark, brooding sky displayed my suffering, and shed the water my eyes could not. Even in the rain, while others ran for shelter, I could not bear to leave the site. I thought I was alone, until I heard Mr. Holmes’s voice near my ear.
“She is not here, Martha,” he said gently, coming up beside me.
“I know that, and yet I cannot bear the thought of being without her in this world.”
“What do you mean?”
“Both my parents are now dead, sir,” I said sadly. “I have no home, no place to find refuge as my life crumbles about me.”
“That is not true,” Mr. Holmes said adamantly. “You will always have Baker Street.”
I turned to look at him, who was soaking and shivering, and said coldly, “You had better return to the house, Mr. Holmes. You will surely catch your death.”
“I’m not moving a step until you come with me.” I looked at him contemptuously, but said nothing.
Thus forced, we made our way back to the house, where a warm fire and the others were waiting.
“Martha,” said Rupert in a worried tone as he hurriedly wrapped a blanket about my shoulders. “I thought you were right behind us. Thank you for fetching her, Mr. Holmes.”
He nodded, but said nothing of what had passed between us. Dr. Bradley and Father Patrick said their final condolences and left. The four of us sat in silence as the fire crackled and the thunder boomed outside. “What are you going to do, Martha?” Rupert said at last.
I rubbed my eyes, exhausted. I attempted to focus, but no thought would come. I finally shook my head in frustration, biting my tongue to spare myself from saying anything regrettable in a moment of anger. I did not want to think anymore, to try anymore.
“I think the best thing, for the next couple of days at least, is for Miss Beauregard to come back with Dr. Watson and I until we can properly decide what to do.”
Rupert began to protest, but at a stern glance from Mr. Holmes fell silent. “We will take good care of her for you, Mr. Hudson.”
At this, Rupert nodded, sighed and rose to leave.
“Rupert,” I called, and he turned in the doorway. I kissed him and said, “I will let you know what is to be done as soon as I find out myself.” He smiled, kissed me again, and was gone.
Shortly thereafter, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and I were driving back to Baker Street. We entered the house without much talk, whereupon Mr. Holmes ordered me straight to bed. “For now you must rest, Martha. We will leave the other matters until morning.” He sniffled and coughed, but I thought of nothing save to follow his first direct order. As soon as my head felt the pillow beneath it, I was deeply asleep.
I was awakened sometime in the night by a loud, continuous coughing. At first I thought I was dreaming, reliving my mother’s final moments. When it did not desist, however, I arose, attempting to follow the sound. I discovered it was coming from Mr. Holmes’s room, where a lamp still burned. I knocked softly, and hearing a rough “Come in,” I entered.
Mr. Holmes sat up in bed, his face red from the used handkerchiefs strewn about on the floor. He sneezed and coughed, his voice deep and strained. “Did I wake you? I’m terribly sorry about that.”
“I thought I was dreaming at first; when the coughing did not stop, I came to see what the matter was.”
“Do not fear; it is nothing more than a horrendous cold.” He continued to cough and sniffle, but acted as though nothing was amiss.
“The fault is mine,” I said penitently. “Had I followed the others to the house, this would not have happened.”
He dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “I would have gladly done more had there been a need.”
I nodded and turned to leave, but before I could stop myself I had asked, “How did you know to come when you did?”
He thought for a long moment, and then said, “It was more unfortunate that I did not arrive sooner. I was
Learning to Kill: Stories