So, what was she up to? For a moment, I thought she was trying to create a beautiful home by filling it with examples of beautiful people. Until, that is, her third hire.
“This is our maid,” said Mary.
“Oh! Erm… hello. What is your name?” I asked.
“Sally Hemsworth, sir, at yer service.”
“And… you’re meant to be a maid?”
“Oh, yes, sir! I can clean anything. Sweep a hearth, lift a stain. I can even cook a fair bit. Oh, and mending! I’m tops at mending! You’ll see!”
“Now—and I hope you won’t resent the question—how old are you, Sally?”
“Ten this summer, we think. Not quite sure, ’cause I never knew me mum.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head thoughtfully. “I just… I feel like this should be illegal.”
“Well happily, it isn’t,” Mary hissed through a disingenuous smile. “It’s a tale as old as time: a happy home torn asunder, all because the husband’s wandering eye comes to rest upon the maid. I do not intend to fall prey to such misfortunes.”
“Not for another decade or two, clearly,” I agreed.
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Mary. “We’ll fire her before then.”
Little Sally began to cry. I tried to comfort her—tried to convince her Mary wasn’t being serious. Yet, as the days went on, I realized she was. Mary had a hard and fast rule: no female household member was to be more attractive than she was—not by a long shot. Conversely, no male servant was to be less attractive than I. Again, not by a long shot.
Very long.
Very long and toned and hot and throbbing.
But, at least, as Mary’s collection of luscious man-meat continued to grow, her hidden purpose revealed itself: Mary intended to turn our house into the social hub of the neighborhood. As she herself was utterly devoid of charm and social skills, this had to be achieved through guile. She began hiring speakers and inviting the local ladies around to hear them. Said ladies knew they must attend at least once, for propriety’s sake. On their first visit, they were rather shocked by the state of our butler. Even more so by the state of our butler’s trousers. And most of all, by the fact that the tea service was kept on a low shelf, behind Mary. Thus, whenever one of them wanted a splash of milk, Joachim was forced to turn away from the assembled guests and bend deeply at the waist. They were, of course, scandalized. Or no… that’s not the word I’m looking for.
Jealous: that’s the one.
Not only was Mary horrifyingly wealthy, she was married to a successful doctor who thought nothing of leaving her alone in such mouth-watering company. The neighborhood women were more than a bit interested in exactly what was going on with that.
We began to become popular.
And not just with the guests, but with the lecturers, too. Mary filled our drawing room’s social calendar with painters, poets, sculptors, writers, wits and wags. Not the good ones, you understand. Oh no, no. Those had been snapped up by trendy social circles years ago. We got the leftovers. But the advantage to these fellows was that they were willing to clear their schedule in exchange for quite nominal fees, just to feel they were making money in the artistic endeavor they were embarrassing. And did they notice how freely the drinks flowed at Mary’s little soirées? Yes. Yes—to the detriment of their livers—they rather did. Even better: Mary was what they called a patron of the arts. By this they meant that if they had accidentally trotted out some unsaleable sculpture of Venus (or maybe some roses, depending which angle you looked at it from) Mary Watson would buy it.
They came in droves. I think it took less than forty days for Mary to establish herself as the absolute queen of London’s third-tier artistic set. Evenings at my house were loud, boisterous, and not particularly intelligent. I spent a great deal of time in my upstairs study, trying to ignore it all. Or—whenever I could manage it—lingering about on Baker Street.
How I yearned for a glimpse of Warlock Holmes. Sometimes I rehearsed little harangues I would use to dress him down—to humiliate him for his unfair treatment of the man who had been his faithful companion through so many adventures. Sometimes I only wanted to throw myself in my familiar chair by the fire, to complain of this everyday vexation, or that one. To ask if Holmes had any interesting cases at the moment. And inquire if, perhaps… he needed my assistance?
Yet it was to no avail. I had no trouble finding Baker Street, but 221B was oddly absent. I could easily retrace my steps to that familiar and beloved place, but when I looked up to see that battered old door… it just wasn’t there. The whole middle part of the building was missing. And it seemed as if the street were thirty feet shorter than it ought to be. What’s more, I noticed that the addresses on either side of where I thought 221 should be were 335 and 339. So, it did seem as if there was an address missing, but not 221.
I could not fathom why. Had Holmes changed them to keep me from finding my way back? Was he hiding from me? Or had this always been part of the magical defenses that stopped the army of enemies he’d built over the last two and a half centuries from finding him and murdering him where he slept? Had it only been the fact of my residence at 221 that had allowed me to perceive it?
