I reminded myself that, in May, she had been in disguise—brown of hair and unsuitable of dress. And at various times over the years, Mrs Hudson had helped Holmes by playing rôles such as housekeeper for a German spy, or shop-attendant in a blackmail case. But the truth was, Mrs Hudson—my Mrs Hudson—had been in a kind of disguise all the years I knew her. She had carried out the rôle of landlady on Baker Street, and later that of Sussex housekeeper, not as a natural thing, but as a necessary act of contrition.
I will admit that in the weeks since that revelation, my acceptance of it was merely intellectual. My heart had no idea what to do with it.
Could today’s appearance be another disguise? If so, why? Had she come here deliberately, leaving a track of crumbs for me to follow? Or—an even more appalling thought—was this a collaboration with Holmes? Was my own husband and partner deceiving me? Was there some case too sensitive to trust me with? Or perhaps I should say, too top-secret?
Even taking into account my distaste for any task performed in the service of Mycroft Holmes—my spymaster brother-in-law, a man of enormous power and troubling ethics—I could not imagine Holmes accepting a case that required lying to my face.
But if this was not another disguise, did that mean I was now looking at the real Mrs Hudson? She’d lost a stone, gained a sense of fashion, and submitted to a great deal of pampering in order to become this attractively groomed woman who sat on the beach and drank wine with wealthy expatriates. Was she the Murphy children’s governess? The parents were treating her more like a guest than an employee. Perhaps that was something Americans did now—at least, these Americans. But surely that blue frock was too simple and well cut to be cheap, that grey hair too expensively styled?
My interest was not as well hidden as I’d thought. Sara Murphy noticed the way my gaze kept creeping over to the woman in the chair, and she made a little noise of irritation. “Oh, sorry—I forgot to introduce you two. Mary, this is our saviour, Miss Hudson. She’s such a love—our nanny had to be away for a few days and dear Miss H volunteered to step into the breach and keep us from madness. Miss H, our new friend Mrs Russell.”
I stretched my arm across a couple of supine bodies to take the hand of my all-but-grandmother, looking into her eyes and seeing nothing there but polite acknowledgment. We shook. Her skin felt considerably softer than mine, after my three weeks spent hauling ropes.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs Russell. Have you been here long?”
Very well: two could play this game. I settled back onto my knees. “We just arrived. My friend Terry and I hitched a ride on the sailing yacht of a friend of his, and I’ve barely got my land legs back under me.”
“Welcome to the Côte d’Azur.”
“Thank you. And you, Miss Hudson—have you lived here long?” My voice was innocent, though she must have seen both curiosity and amusement in my eyes.
“Not very long, no, although I’ve visited on and off over much of my life. I decided to retire here. Well, I say retire…”
She glanced across at Sara Murphy, who laughed aloud. “Miss Hudson here is no more retired than…well, she’s less retired than any of us are, that’s for sure.”
“What is it that you do?” I asked.
“For lack of a better term, I call it consulting.”
I couldn’t stifle a cough of laughter—but then cleared my throat to make it sound like a simple cough. Sherlock Holmes billed himself as a consulting detective. “About what do you ‘consult,’ Miss Hudson?”
“Whatever is required, Mrs Russell. For example, do you know Monte Carlo?”
“I’ve not yet been there, although an old friend seemed to have some considerable affection for the place.” She was good. Her face betrayed no sign that she might know who this old friend was. “I’m aware that Monte Carlo is the part of Monaco where Grandpapa goes to lose the family estate and White Russians hide out from the Bolsheviks.”
“And there is the problem in a nutshell,” she responded. “The Casino was once magnificent and world-famous, the gardens are still lovely, the harbour is first-rate, but as you say, the place has gone out of fashion. The Crown Prince, and especially his daughter the Princess Charlotte, realise this, and wish to expand its potential audience beyond the roulette wheels and card tables.”
“And you understand this sort of…consulting?”
“I understand it very well, Mrs Russell.”
At this last, rather emphatic statement, Sara Murphy picked up the odd flavour to the exchange. Not that she could begin to understand the thread of tension, but she instinctively moved to deflate it. “The Casino’s trying to develop a plan for the future,” she explained to me. “As a way of dusting off the cobwebs and moving a little more into the Jazz Age. One of the things Miss Hudson was considering is: how can the Casino and baths appeal to people more like, well, Gerald and me? People who want to have a good time, but don’t care to spend all day indoors, or to leave our families behind. It was a happy coincidence that, as I said, our nanny was called away for a few days just when Miss Hudson needed some children to experiment on.”
“Happy timing, indeed.”
“Oh, it really has been! She comes up with the most extraordinary means of combining entertainment with education. Patrick’s a bit young, but Baoth and Honoria have adored the past week. The lives of starfishes, how the moon links to tides, invisible ink—all sorts of things that keep them happy and busy.”
“Quite the little Baker Street Irregulars,” I said drily.
“Funny you should say that,” Sara said. “She had all three of them tracking us through Juan-les-Pins the other day. We’d look up and there they’d be, peeping around a corner.”
“How very amusing. Miss Hudson, you and I must talk about your little project.”
“I look forward to it,” she replied.
And with that, just before she turned away, there was a brief flash of herself, an all but imperceptible lowering of one eyelid. Then she pulled a pair of tinted sun-glasses over her made-up eyes and disappeared into the obscurity of a woman of sixty-nine years.
* * *
—
After a time, the young nanny, who seemed to be attached to the other three children, walked down to the shore to retrieve those still in the water. They ignored her for a time, then realised their own hunger and pounded out of the water and across the sand to demand food, drink, and adult attention.
The abrupt influx caused the dozen adults to pull in, shift their interests, and settle into a new configuration. Sara and Gerald, who had been on separate mats, now came together with the children. Terry watched the tableau with his usual good humour. The others looked on with something close to bemusement, as if wondering why an adult would actively choose the company of small children. Only one betrayed open exasperation: the young man not dressed for the beach, whom Gerald had introduced as “Rafe, a brilliant sculptor.” Rafe had been talking about his work, and made little effort to hide his irritation. He stood, brushing sand off his trousers, and said he had to get back to the studio.