The Hudson Diaries by Kara L. Barney Page A

and knocked again at the Baker Street door. He again answered, moody and ponderous.
    “What is it, Miss Beauregard?”
    “Sir, I believe you and I were watched during our conference.”
    “Watched?” his brows knitted, “By whom? Did you see anyone?”
    “I do not know… No, I saw no one. But as I turned away from your porch, I heard rustling and…”
    “Yes? Speak up.” he said shortly.
    “A cough, sir.”
    He frowned slightly. “What?”
    “A cough. I heard a cough in the foliage yonder.”
    His eyes bulged, and I thought I saw the hint of a smile on his lips. “Thank you, Miss Beauregard,” he replied, “Good day.”
    Stunned somewhat by this reaction and his conduct toward me, I went on my way home to Charing Cross. Once there I began my domestic duties, and while my mother wished to know my progress toward employment, she did not press me when I told her I wished to speak of other things. It was several days before I saw the man again. In that interim I searched for other employment, sure that he would not call upon me. What would be my surprise, then, when one fog-ridden night, my mother and I were sewing by the fire when we heard a light but powerful knock at the door. Standing on the step, he asked if I was at home. Seeing that I was, he came in slowly, with a rather nervous countenance. My mother shut the door and a long silence followed. I finally asked the interviewer what could bring him to my home, and at last he spoke.
    “May I speak with you alone, Miss Beauregard?”
    My mother immediately left the room with a watchful, hesitant look on her face, probably believing this man to be a suitor.
    “Please, do sit down.” I said, not having the slightest idea what might be on his mind.
    He did so, and after another heavy silence, proceeded to tell me his thoughts. He said, “Firstly, I believe apology is in order. For my conduct several days past, I can only say that what I said to you is true. Not many others have been able to understand my particular needs or vigilance—I can only think of one person at present. However, the only way in which I can get a housekeeper, and hopefully an aid in those cases in which I might make use of you, is to try you out. What do you make of that, Miss Beauregard?”
    “I accept your apology, sir, if that is what you mean by it.”
    “It is. Secondly,” he continued, “I wish to ask you a question. What was it that drove you back to my door after I had treated you so harshly?”
    After a time, and finally with a shrug of my shoulders, I said, “Call it intuition, sir.”
    “If intuition is what you call it, then your intuition is one of the highest quality. Indeed, there was someone near my home during our conference together.”
    In response to my look of shock, he grinned and went on. “The man you heard was my trusted assistant and confidante, Dr. John Watson. After some friendly coercion, he agreed to be part of an experiment I invented to test those who came to Baker Street seeking employment. They first, unfortunately, would be berated and rebuked by me, then Watson would create some sort of disturbance. You were the only person to return and warn me of possible danger. For that I must thank you, and tell you that I wish for you to enter my employment. Does that suit you, young lady?”
    Taken aback by his narrative as well as his request, it took some time for me to accept. Once I had done so, however, Mr. Holmes introduced himself to me officially, shook my hand, and told me that I would start on the morrow. Thus began my employment with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and since then the house on Baker Street and its owner have been under my care.

The Stolen Letters
    Some months into my employment with Mr. Holmes, though I had been warned of the certain dangers which might befall Baker Street, I attempted to keep the house as routine and ordinary as possible, drawing no attention to the fact that he was a private detective. I had grown accustomed to his want