The Interview
I remember the first day I met Sherlock Holmes; Dr. Watson was indisposed at the time. Before I became the prosperous landlady of Baker Street—that was only after a narrative entitled “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches” by Dr. Watson—I had been searching long and hard for work, and happened upon an advertisement in the paper, which read:
“Looking for a housekeeper of the highest standards; honest, hard-working, and true to his or her word. Does not mind solitude, and possesses a considerable amount of self-motivation, as the employer travels often.”
There was no name, only an address. Since these seemed to be the only qualifications, I sent a wire fixing an appointment and set off for Baker Street. Not knowing who or what I would find there, I came to the door and after taking a deep breath, knocked twice. A tall, thin man answered, his deep brown eyes scrutinizing my every move. Trying not to give in to intimidation, I curtsied and said, “Sir, I came as an answer to the advertisement—”
“Yes, yes…” he said, with a wave of his hand.
He swung the door wide open and without another word sat in a large wing-backed chair. After a moment, I realized that he would not direct me to a chair for myself, and so stepped in and sat immediately across from him in the nearest chair provided.
“What is your name?” he asked. I could see clearly that he was taking notes.
“Beauregard,” I said confidently, “Martha Beauregard.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
I began to tell my interviewer the general qualifications that I had told most employers. He then asked me about my family and upbringing. I answered, “My mother and I live in Charing Cross, and she is a seamstress. I have no siblings. My father…”
It was difficult for me to speak about my father; he had died from tuberculosis some months earlier, and I missed him terribly.
“Your father died?”
I hung my head, trying to answer but finding that I could not.
After a significant pause, he said, “You are of the working class, but you are quite literary and enjoy gardening. You know your way in the world, but thankfully you are naïve of the world of crime that surrounds you. Am I correct?”
I nodded, amazed at how he knew of these other private matters. “Sir, how—”
“It is a gift of mine to be very observant. Now, young lady, will you excel where others might have failed?”
I was surprised that my interviewer had called me young, when he himself was not much older than I. He could be no more than in his early thirties, his face chiseled, with deep lines around the jaw. After a slight pause, I said something very rash indeed.
“You will need to trust me, sir.”
His eyebrows shot up and he smiled enigmatically, I believe somewhat astonished. “ Can I trust you, Miss Beauregard? I have worked on some of the most dangerous and twisted intrigue in all of England, and I hold secrets which some would kill to possess. Not once have I found someone willing or able to enter my line of work who can also remain true. What makes you any different?”
I could sense that he was agitated, even slightly angry. For a moment I was struck dumb, and then answered, “I will do my best, sir…”
“What if your best is not enough?” he said condescendingly, “Good day, Miss Beauregard.”
I stood up, curtsied, and left immediately thereafter, not wishing to anger him further. On his porch steps I inhaled deeply and shook my head, confused at such conduct. As I left the porch, I thought I heard a cough nearby. Expecting to see someone there, I turned my head but saw no one. Disconcerted, I looked about, but still there was no one save myself nearby. I stepped off the porch, telling myself that my thoughts were strictly imaginary, but I had the strongest inclination to turn back and tell the man. I attempted to ignore it, for I did not wish to anger him further. Unable to do so for much longer, however, I revived my courage
I remember the first day I met Sherlock Holmes; Dr. Watson was indisposed at the time. Before I became the prosperous landlady of Baker Street—that was only after a narrative entitled “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches” by Dr. Watson—I had been searching long and hard for work, and happened upon an advertisement in the paper, which read:
“Looking for a housekeeper of the highest standards; honest, hard-working, and true to his or her word. Does not mind solitude, and possesses a considerable amount of self-motivation, as the employer travels often.”
There was no name, only an address. Since these seemed to be the only qualifications, I sent a wire fixing an appointment and set off for Baker Street. Not knowing who or what I would find there, I came to the door and after taking a deep breath, knocked twice. A tall, thin man answered, his deep brown eyes scrutinizing my every move. Trying not to give in to intimidation, I curtsied and said, “Sir, I came as an answer to the advertisement—”
“Yes, yes…” he said, with a wave of his hand.
He swung the door wide open and without another word sat in a large wing-backed chair. After a moment, I realized that he would not direct me to a chair for myself, and so stepped in and sat immediately across from him in the nearest chair provided.
“What is your name?” he asked. I could see clearly that he was taking notes.
“Beauregard,” I said confidently, “Martha Beauregard.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
I began to tell my interviewer the general qualifications that I had told most employers. He then asked me about my family and upbringing. I answered, “My mother and I live in Charing Cross, and she is a seamstress. I have no siblings. My father…”
It was difficult for me to speak about my father; he had died from tuberculosis some months earlier, and I missed him terribly.
“Your father died?”
I hung my head, trying to answer but finding that I could not.
After a significant pause, he said, “You are of the working class, but you are quite literary and enjoy gardening. You know your way in the world, but thankfully you are naïve of the world of crime that surrounds you. Am I correct?”
I nodded, amazed at how he knew of these other private matters. “Sir, how—”
“It is a gift of mine to be very observant. Now, young lady, will you excel where others might have failed?”
I was surprised that my interviewer had called me young, when he himself was not much older than I. He could be no more than in his early thirties, his face chiseled, with deep lines around the jaw. After a slight pause, I said something very rash indeed.
“You will need to trust me, sir.”
His eyebrows shot up and he smiled enigmatically, I believe somewhat astonished. “ Can I trust you, Miss Beauregard? I have worked on some of the most dangerous and twisted intrigue in all of England, and I hold secrets which some would kill to possess. Not once have I found someone willing or able to enter my line of work who can also remain true. What makes you any different?”
I could sense that he was agitated, even slightly angry. For a moment I was struck dumb, and then answered, “I will do my best, sir…”
“What if your best is not enough?” he said condescendingly, “Good day, Miss Beauregard.”
I stood up, curtsied, and left immediately thereafter, not wishing to anger him further. On his porch steps I inhaled deeply and shook my head, confused at such conduct. As I left the porch, I thought I heard a cough nearby. Expecting to see someone there, I turned my head but saw no one. Disconcerted, I looked about, but still there was no one save myself nearby. I stepped off the porch, telling myself that my thoughts were strictly imaginary, but I had the strongest inclination to turn back and tell the man. I attempted to ignore it, for I did not wish to anger him further. Unable to do so for much longer, however, I revived my courage
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