Read sample A Phoenix Rises

Chapter 1

I sometimes wondered, as I put water on to boil, swept the floor, or picked up the children’s toys for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, how I had ever found time to work. My time at Scotland Yard was a distant dream, and my days as an assistant to Fingers Molloy – well, they belonged to another lifetime.

It was not that I disliked the life I lived now: far from it. I loved my husband and my children, and I was proud of our little flat in Pimlico. I spent plenty of time with the Hugginses, helping Mrs Huggins manage the ever-increasing family. I saw my old friend Jane regularly, her duties at the workhouse permitting. And of course there was my sister Amy, who was an occupation in herself. I heard about her trials and triumphs: how she had learnt to turn the heel of a sock at last, how Mrs Kirby at the church had slighted her flower arrangement, and her vacillations on whether Mr Dyson, the vicar, was the marrying kind or not.

All in all, I had a full life.

And then the letter came.

I had kept in touch with Dr Watson since the death of Sherlock Holmes: it would have been cruel not to. But each time I went he seemed more withdrawn, and Mrs Watson was rather protective of him. She reminded me a little of a bird guarding its eggs in the nest. So my visits had become less frequent, and sometimes, when I really couldn’t face a journey across London to sit and make halting conversation, I wrote a letter instead.

And then his letter came, in a black-edged envelope. I ripped it open without looking at the writing.

I bit my lip as I recalled the times I had fobbed him off with a letter. When had I last seen Mary Watson? Had it been two, three months? She had looked pale and strained, but I put that down to anxiety over her husband, who was still grieving for his dear friend Sherlock Holmes.

And now she had gone, too.

Of course I had attended the funeral, and Tom had come with me. I had been uncertain whether Inspector Lestrade would allow him to take leave from work, but I need not have worried. He was coming, too. In fact, policemen and detectives made up a surprisingly large proportion of the congregation. As we stood, sat, sang and prayed, from time to time I found myself wondering what the criminal element of London might be getting up to without their usual checks in place.

Dr Watson himself had pressed my hand at the church door when we arrived, and managed a weak smile of greeting. ‘It is good to see you, Jack,’ he said, quietly. ‘I just wish…’ He stood, searching for the words.

‘So do I,’ I said. ‘I shall come and visit you more often, I promise.’

A shadow crossed his face. ‘You don’t have to.’

‘I want to.’ I squeezed his hand, and conscious of the queue behind me, entered the church, almost colliding with an elderly verger whisking a broom out of sight.

I had kept my promise. I visited Dr Watson each week, usually without Ruby and Gerry, since they were toddling and liable to investigate anything their little fingers found.

He had given up the flat in Paddington and moved to Kensington. ‘Too many memories,’ he had said, shaking his head. But his new rooms displayed the same photographs, the same ornaments, the same scrapbooks. He would bring them out and turn the pages, showing me the newspaper cuttings of Mr Holmes’s past cases, underlining the headlines with a careful finger. I could imagine him with newspaper, scissors and a pot of glue, ruling a pencilled line and cutting along it with the careful precision that he brought to his medical practice – or had brought, for I was uncertain how much time he spent there now.

I am sure Dr Watson had been very fond of Mary: but it was not of Mary that he spoke. He spoke of Mr Holmes, recalling their first meeting at Barts’ Hospital, how he had tried to work out what Mr Holmes’s profession was, and the excitement of their first cases together. Then, he came to life. He was no longer a still, sad man, his hands dangling between his knees, frowning as he built a sentence. He was back in his prime, rattling through the London streets in a hansom cab with his best friend, on the trail of a case.

I discovered that I was part of a network of friends and well-wishers. Mrs Hudson called too, bringing treats which she thought might tempt him. Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson made a point of dropping in when they were on business in the area, and sometimes when they were not. I met a plump, jolly man whom Dr Watson introduced as Stamford and a lean fellow called Thurston.

Once, memorably, I ran into Mr Snell there, and had to first distract Dr Watson, then rescue several silver spoons from Snell’s pockets. ‘I do apologise,’ he said afterwards, on the steps. ‘Old habits, you know. You’re a bad influence, Jack.’ He emitted a wheezy laugh, raised his hat to me, and I watched him merge into the background of London.

Perhaps the most surprising visitor to Dr Watson’s rooms, though, was Mr Holmes’s older brother Mycroft. I boggled when I spied the tall, stout figure sailing towards me as I closed the door. I felt as if a planet had deviated from its orbit and some terrible catastrophe would ensue.

Mr Holmes, though, seemed entirely unperturbed at finding himself so far from Whitehall and Pall Mall. ‘Ah, Jack,’ he said, coming to a gentle halt and offering a hand. ‘Good.’

He asked me how I was and made polite responses to my answers, but before long I found myself telling him when I usually visited, who else of my acquaintance called on Dr Watson, and where I might be reached. Mr Holmes took out a notebook and a silver pencil and made a memorandum in a significant way. ‘Excellent,’ he said.

From that point, I occasionally received a short, polite note signed with a flourishing M, or sometimes even a wire, asking if I would mind visiting Dr Watson on Tuesday instead of Thursday that week. I gathered that Mr Holmes was organising us.

And yet there was something unhealthy about the continual reminiscence. Dr Watson seemed happier, and was certainly more occupied than he had been, yet he was living in the past. We knew Sherlock Holmes would never return, and that those days were over.

I broached the matter with Tom when the children were in bed and we were sitting down to a late supper. ‘I’m worried about Dr Watson,’ I said, without preamble.

Tom choked on a pickled onion and I had to thump him on the back. ‘Why?’ he coughed out, once he had recovered himself.

‘Well, Mr Holmes isn’t coming back, is he? It feels as if all Dr Watson does is reminisce, and we’re encouraging him.’

‘But if he’s happy, Jacky…’

‘Yes, but wouldn’t he be happier with a new interest, a new hobby?’

Tom pursed his lips and thought. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He still has his practice, doesn’t he? There’s that to think of.’

‘I suppose,’ I replied, perhaps with a trace of sulkiness.

‘Old dog, new tricks?’ Tom grinned, and the sunshine melted my ill-humour. ‘I don’t think Dr Watson is a man for knitting, watercolour painting, or scrimshaw work.’

I giggled at the thought of the good doctor managing a pair of knitting needles. ‘Perhaps not.’ But though I did not realise it at the time, Tom had put the seed of an idea into my head. Perhaps not a new hobby – but what about a new version of an old one? Dr Watson had helped Sherlock Holmes to solve cases. Surely it would be more stimulating, more healthy for him to peruse the papers and form opinions on the crimes he found there? That would exercise his mind and ingenuity much more than going over old ground and reliving the past.

I did not share my idea with Tom, but put it into practice on my next visit to Dr Watson. I had noted that he no longer took a daily newspaper, so I brought that day’s Times, featuring several cases which Fingers Molloy might have described as ‘juicy’. Over tea, I put the paper into the doctor’s incurious hand. ‘I’d be interested to know your opinion of the Ramsden kidnapping, Dr Watson.’

He frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t—’

‘The latest report is on page two.’

He licked a finger and turned laboriously to the page, scanning the columns of print. His frown deepened as he read. His eyebrows rose in a gradual motion, then knitted. He read the article three times before looking up at me. ‘What else can you tell me about this case, Jack?’ he asked. ‘What have I missed?’

‘Well,’ I said, congratulating myself inwardly, ‘it began like this…’

As I told Dr Watson all I knew of the case, his frame straightened and his gaze became keener until I was reminded just a little of his former friend. He interrupted me once, to ask if I would mind waiting while he fetched paper and pen, after which he scribbled busily. And when we had discussed various hypotheses and I had to end my visit, Dr Watson saw me to the door with a spring in his step. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Jack,’ he said, and his handshake was firm and purposeful.

I smiled all the way home, even on the omnibus. Heaven knows what my fellow-passengers thought. But if I had known what a train of events I had set in motion that Thursday afternoon, I would not have undertaken it so lightly.

Chapter 2

The next time I called on Dr Watson, I found that he had made himself a nest. ‘Good afternoon, Jack,’ he said, looking up from a mess of papers on his desk. Already, he seemed a good ten years younger than he had on my previous visit.

‘Good afternoon, Dr Watson,’ I replied. ‘How are you?’

‘Never bet— Well, not that, exactly, but better.’ His smile broadened. ‘You were right, Jack. I thought things over once you had left, and while you never said it, you were right. I needed something to divert my mind from reminiscing.’

I felt my cheeks warm. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

Dr Watson waved a hand. ‘We doctors are good at prescribing for other people, but not always for ourselves.’ He pulled the bell. ‘Tea please, Molly,’ he said to the servant, when she appeared. ‘This young lady and I have matters to discuss.’

Molly’s eyebrows vanished beneath her cap. ‘Indeed, sir,’ she said, and left.

When I looked back to Dr Watson, he was regarding me with interest. ‘I perceive I have discomfited you somewhat.’

‘Oh no, it’s quite all right,’ I said. ‘I just—’

‘It wasn’t my intention to do so, Jack, and for that I apologise.’ Dr Watson had the look of someone waking from a long sleep. ‘It has been a long time since I considered what others might think.’ He sighed. ‘I have been too wrapped up in myself. I understand that now.’

‘Really, it doesn’t matter.’

‘First Holmes, then Mary,’ he mused. ‘What else have I missed?’ Sadness, mingled with – was it wonder? – crept over his face, but gradually the sadness intensified until I could bear it no more.

‘Dr Watson, I see you have been busy.’ My voice seemed loud and harsh in the silence. I gestured towards the newspapers spread across the desk.

‘Oh yes, yes. I have been reading all I can about the Ramsden case.’

‘And what are your conclusions?’

‘I think—’

Molly arrived with a tea tray and a significant look. ‘Your tea, sir, madam.’ She set down the tray and lowered her eyes decorously before withdrawing.

‘Shall I pour?’ I asked.

‘Please.’ Dr Watson watched me pour the brown liquid into the cups and add milk.

‘Sugar?’ I asked, though I knew he took one lump, in case Molly was lingering outside.

‘Just one, please.’

I concentrated on grasping a lump with the tongs, a skill I had still not mastered. At home, none of us took sugar in our tea, and while I had received love and care in my workhouse upbringing, sugar-tong skills had not been part of the curriculum. I focused on a manageable lump and positioned the tongs on either side… It seemed secure. Moving slowly, carefully, I lifted the sugar lump.

‘The father did it.’

I retrieved the sugar tongs from Dr Watson’s cup. ‘Pardon me.’

‘It’s the obvious answer. A child has been kidnapped from a family who are comfortably off but not rich, and an impossible sum demanded as a ransom. Why would a kidnapper target the Ramsdens?’

I considered, sipping my own tea. ‘Revenge? A score to settle?’ I put my cup down before Dr Watson replied, in case I disgraced myself further.

‘The man’s thirty-two and a solicitor! What can he possibly have done to chalk up a score of such magnitude?’

‘Since you clearly have a superior insight into the case, perhaps you can explain it to me,’ I replied, rather nettled. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘Very well, I shall.’ Dr Watson got up and began to pace. ‘The Ramsdens have three children: a five-year-old boy, a three-year-old girl, and a baby girl eighteen months old. The two older children share a room, the youngest sleeps with her nursemaid. Somehow, the window is forced and the baby abducted. But it would make sense for the kidnapper to choose the boy, surely? The eldest child, the son and heir, sleeping in a room without an adult in attendance.’

‘Perhaps the children’s bedroom is closer to their parents’ room, or overlooked from the street,’ I said.

‘That’s what I asked Lestrade,’ Dr Watson replied.

‘And what did he say?’

‘He didn’t.’ Dr Watson took a long draught of his tea. ‘He said it was a police matter and they didn’t need help from civilians. I objected to this on the grounds that as a former army surgeon and Sherlock Holmes’s assistant, I am hardly a civilian. However, Lestrade said that whatever my qualifications, his hands were tied, and no information on the case could be shared further than it already had been in the newspapers.’

‘Oh.’ I frowned. Dr Watson’s report of the inspector’s words did not bear much resemblance to my former boss, who was usually more than ready to accept or ask for help. ‘Did he say why?’

‘He did not.’ For the first time I noticed how upright Dr Watson was in his chair, how set his shoulders, how straight his back.

‘I still don’t understand why you think the father is responsible, though,’ I said, not so much to hear Dr Watson’s theory as to keep him from any further remarks which I should probably share with Tom.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Um, no.’ I answered honestly, and the incredulity on Dr Watson’s face, well-camouflaged but still apparent, stirred a faint feeling of recognition. Where had I seen something like it before?

’Think about it, Jack!’ Exasperation and impatience mingled in his voice. ‘Any sane kidnapper would either take the boy or find a different target! The Ramsdens have no hope of paying the ransom, not without financial help. Indeed, their plight has already moved a newspaper to set up a fundraising campaign on their behalf, with promising results.’ He tapped the nearest pile of paper, which rustled. ‘That in itself makes me suspicious.’

‘But why the baby, Dr Watson? Tell me that.’

A look of triumph spread over Dr Watson’s face. ‘Because the baby won’t remember,’ he said, in an undertone which nevertheless conveyed the import of his words. ‘The baby won’t remember what happened, whereas the other two children might, and could certainly talk to some degree about who and what they had seen. Ramsden is clearly working with confederates, with the aim of securing a share of the handsome sum demanded. I fully expect that once the baby has been returned the Ramsden family will slip from view until they are safely abroad, probably under false names, and out of reach of the law. The nursemaid may be in on it, too. But of course, due to Lestrade’s lack of assistance, I can find out nothing about her.’

‘It’s … possible.’

‘It’s obvious!’ exclaimed Dr Watson, and the person he reminded me of dropped into my mind.

Sherlock Holmes.

‘You’re my last hope, Jack.’ The pleading note in Dr Watson’s voice almost swayed me – but not quite. Something in me, some small hard core, still held firm against his entreaty. I was not sure why, but I trusted it.

‘I am sorry, Dr Watson, but I cannot be any sort of partner or assistant to you. I have forgotten all I learnt during my time at Scotland Yard, and I was only a filing clerk then.’

‘That is not what I was referring to,’ snapped Dr Watson. ‘You know perfectly well that my estimation of your expertise dates from an earlier time. Your employment with Fingers Molloy, to be precise.’

I had not realised it was possible to be cold and warm at the same time. My face was burning, but my spine seemed to have frozen.

‘Those days are over,’ I said. ‘They are completely gone. They might as well never have been.’

‘Really,’ said Dr Watson, and there was an edge to his voice that I did not like. It reminded me of the day when he had caught me on the steps of 221B Baker Street and marched me in to face justice. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘Whether you believe it or not, it is true.’ My hands shook as I moved them to the armrests of my chair. With difficulty, I rose. ‘Goodbye, Dr Watson.’

‘At least think it over.’ Again, the note of distress in his voice almost moved me to sit back down and reconsider. But the voice inside, the voice I trusted, commanded me to go, and if I disobeyed I had no idea of the consequences.

‘It is quite out of the question,’ I said. ‘You are asking me to disobey the wishes of my former employer and my husband’s current employer. Have you any idea how serious that could be?’

Dr Watson subsided into his chair like a deflated balloon. ‘I had not thought,’ he muttered, and this time the sadness in his face was mingled with self-censure. ‘I did not think.’

‘I shall visit at the same time next week, if you wish it?’ I felt it was the least I could do after disappointing him so badly.

He did not look up. ‘Do not put yourself out, Jack. I shall write or wire if I am free next week. I can manage by myself.’

I wanted to say something, but I was unsure what to say, except goodbye. I hoped it would not be the last time I ever said it to Dr Watson.

I do not remember much of the journey home. Even the clatter of the omnibus could not drown out my guilt and shame. The worst of it was that I did not know what I should have done, what the right path was.

I arrived at the Hugginses’ house, and I hope I was cordial to my mother-in-law and affectionate to my children, and that I cooked a good or at least tolerable dinner for the family that evening. I hope no one noticed anything amiss, for my head, and a sizeable portion of my heart, was with poor lonely Dr Watson in Kensington.