The Treasure Of Baker Street

Mrs Hudson and Mrs Watson are on a strongly scented trail.

- Michelle Birkby

In January, 1890, I was housekeeper to Mr Sherlock Holmes – but my friend Mary Watson and I had investigated a number of cases ourselves.

One morning, I walked with Mary down Baker Street, where the air glittered as hard and bright and cold as a diamond. We had almost reached home before we saw the young woman hovering outside 221b Baker Street.

Mary and I exchanged glances. She obviously wanted to consult Mr Holmes, but was wary of him. Mary and I presented a much kinder face. We offered her our help.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe the police, and yet…”

“Tell us your problem,” Mary said.

The woman was a sweet little thing, bundled up in red wool, setting off a mass of black hair and white skin. Her name was Margaret James. Shyly she said that she had worked for Mr Charles Booth, the great ship owner, who had set out to map all the wealth – and lack of it – in London. The maps were completed, but she still visited one neighbourhood. She insisted on showing us the problem.

She rushed down Manchester Street, into South Street, down the inaptly named Paradise Street and into Great Barlow Street.

The streets got progressively shabbier, moving from red brick to plainer brown houses and to crumbling, filthy ones. Here was a battle against misery, dirt and despair. The privies stank, and the pump was frozen solid.

The houses were large, divided into individually let rooms. People saw us and turned away. They weren’t so low that they would beg, not yet, but they couldn’t bear to see someone well off.

Margaret opened a cracked wooden door on the ground floor.