Martha?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Watson then continued, “I also heard something shatter in the hall before you brought her to me, Holmes. I was coming to investigate when you called out.”
I got up shakily from the bed, and with Dr. Watson’s help passed into the hall, where there were the remains of a shattered statue and, nearby, a small pool of blood.
“A miracle,” Dr. Watson whispered; Mr. Holmes bent low, turning the pieces over and over in his hands.
“What is—?” I turned to him, confused.
Mr. Holmes finished Dr. Watson’s thought. “Had you been hit over the head with this statue, as Watson surmises, you would have most likely not lived to see another day. That would have been a fatal blow indeed.”
I trembled as I gazed at the shattered statue on the floor.
“What happened before the gloved hand, Martha? Can you remember?”
I shook my head. “I came down the hall and—” My head began to throb as before, and my thoughts became clouded. I covered my eyes with my hands to shield them from the light.
“That’s enough, Holmes,” said Dr. Watson gently as he took me by the arm. “She needs to rest now.”
Mr. Holmes nodded and doused the light. Dr. Watson led me back to my room, ordering me to rest. “I do not want you to worry about what has passed tonight,” he said. “We will try again in the morning.” I nodded and as soon as the door closed I fell into a deep sleep.
When I awoke sometime in the late morning, the throbbing in my head had relieved somewhat. I passed my hands over my eyes, expecting my vision to clear. Though I rubbed them, my vision remained blurred. Frightened, I called out to Dr. Watson. He led me into the sitting room, where he examined my eyes.
“Sir,” I asked desperately, “am I going to lose my sight?”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t believe so. But you must tell me at once if your vision worsens.”
Just then Mr. Holmes opened the front door, looking agitated.
“Any luck?” asked Dr. Watson.
“We still definitely have a motive—that diamond was quite expensive—but when I spoke to the jewelers, they did not observe anything suspicious or remember anyone in particular.”
“Any ideas?”
“Theories, but not facts. Are you feeling better, Martha?”
When I did not answer, he turned to me. Distracted, I had not heard him. I was wondering if I would ever see Rupert again, literally and figuratively. He asked again and I replied, “Yes, I am well.” I stood up shakily and returned to my room. I did not come out again save to make meals for my masters, but even now I am unsure whether they were edible or not.
A few nights later, while my vision was still recovering, I went to light a candle to read by and discovered the candlestick was missing. Suddenly the night of the burglary was once again clearly before me in my mind. I went quickly to Mr. Holmes’s door and without knocking entered the room.
“Mr. Holmes, the candlestick!” I said excitedly.
“What?”
The candlestick,” I repeated feverishly. “It is missing. I grabbed it to defend myself when I heard the intruder.”
“So your own weapon was used against you,” Mr. Holmes said, his mind working quickly. “Then the intruder, seeing that you had fallen, took the weapon with her.”
“And the ring,” I said bitterly, looking down at my empty finger. Mr. Holmes looked up at me, but said nothing.
Over the next few days life resumed as usual, though Rupert did not come to visit me. The more time passed, the more depressed and bitter I became. I began to believe that Rupert’s proposal was nothing but a dream, and the reality was he felt nothing for me at all.
One day, as Dr. Watson and I were walking toward Regent’s Park—he said it would be good for my recovery—the doctor took me by the arm and whisked us suddenly into a jewelry shop.
“Sir, what are you doing?” I asked, alarmed.
“I’m not sure… Try to act naturally. Sherlock has some sort of plan working in
“Yes.”
Dr. Watson then continued, “I also heard something shatter in the hall before you brought her to me, Holmes. I was coming to investigate when you called out.”
I got up shakily from the bed, and with Dr. Watson’s help passed into the hall, where there were the remains of a shattered statue and, nearby, a small pool of blood.
“A miracle,” Dr. Watson whispered; Mr. Holmes bent low, turning the pieces over and over in his hands.
“What is—?” I turned to him, confused.
Mr. Holmes finished Dr. Watson’s thought. “Had you been hit over the head with this statue, as Watson surmises, you would have most likely not lived to see another day. That would have been a fatal blow indeed.”
I trembled as I gazed at the shattered statue on the floor.
“What happened before the gloved hand, Martha? Can you remember?”
I shook my head. “I came down the hall and—” My head began to throb as before, and my thoughts became clouded. I covered my eyes with my hands to shield them from the light.
“That’s enough, Holmes,” said Dr. Watson gently as he took me by the arm. “She needs to rest now.”
Mr. Holmes nodded and doused the light. Dr. Watson led me back to my room, ordering me to rest. “I do not want you to worry about what has passed tonight,” he said. “We will try again in the morning.” I nodded and as soon as the door closed I fell into a deep sleep.
When I awoke sometime in the late morning, the throbbing in my head had relieved somewhat. I passed my hands over my eyes, expecting my vision to clear. Though I rubbed them, my vision remained blurred. Frightened, I called out to Dr. Watson. He led me into the sitting room, where he examined my eyes.
“Sir,” I asked desperately, “am I going to lose my sight?”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t believe so. But you must tell me at once if your vision worsens.”
Just then Mr. Holmes opened the front door, looking agitated.
“Any luck?” asked Dr. Watson.
“We still definitely have a motive—that diamond was quite expensive—but when I spoke to the jewelers, they did not observe anything suspicious or remember anyone in particular.”
“Any ideas?”
“Theories, but not facts. Are you feeling better, Martha?”
When I did not answer, he turned to me. Distracted, I had not heard him. I was wondering if I would ever see Rupert again, literally and figuratively. He asked again and I replied, “Yes, I am well.” I stood up shakily and returned to my room. I did not come out again save to make meals for my masters, but even now I am unsure whether they were edible or not.
A few nights later, while my vision was still recovering, I went to light a candle to read by and discovered the candlestick was missing. Suddenly the night of the burglary was once again clearly before me in my mind. I went quickly to Mr. Holmes’s door and without knocking entered the room.
“Mr. Holmes, the candlestick!” I said excitedly.
“What?”
The candlestick,” I repeated feverishly. “It is missing. I grabbed it to defend myself when I heard the intruder.”
“So your own weapon was used against you,” Mr. Holmes said, his mind working quickly. “Then the intruder, seeing that you had fallen, took the weapon with her.”
“And the ring,” I said bitterly, looking down at my empty finger. Mr. Holmes looked up at me, but said nothing.
Over the next few days life resumed as usual, though Rupert did not come to visit me. The more time passed, the more depressed and bitter I became. I began to believe that Rupert’s proposal was nothing but a dream, and the reality was he felt nothing for me at all.
One day, as Dr. Watson and I were walking toward Regent’s Park—he said it would be good for my recovery—the doctor took me by the arm and whisked us suddenly into a jewelry shop.
“Sir, what are you doing?” I asked, alarmed.
“I’m not sure… Try to act naturally. Sherlock has some sort of plan working in
Similar Books
