Mrs Hudson's Case by Laurie R. King Page A

know who it is. Things have gone missing from all the neighbours, little things mostly, but it’s not nice.”
    I had been watching Holmes’ movements at first idly, then more closely, and now I took a step into the room and caught at Mrs Hudson’s sleeve. “Mrs Hudson, I’ll help you with it. I’m sure I can figure out how to booby trap a camera with a flash. Come, let’s go downstairs and decide where to put it.”
    “But I thought—”
    “Come with me, Mrs Hudson.”
    “Mary, are you certain?”
    “Now, Mrs Hudson.” I tightened my grip on her substantial arm and hauled, just as Holmes removed his finger from the end of the pipette and allowed the substance it held to drop into the already seething mixture in the beaker. He had not been paying attention to his experiment; a cloud of noxious green gas began instantly to billow up from the mouth of the beaker. Mrs Hudson and I went with all haste down the stairs, leaving Holmes to grope his way to the shutters and fling them open, coughing and cursing furiously.
    Once in her kitchen, Mrs Hudson’s inborn hospitality reas serted itself, and I had to wait until she had stirred up a batch of rock cakes, questioned me about my progress and my diet up at Oxford in this, my second year there. She then put on the kettle, washed up the bowls, and swept the floor before finally settling in a chair across the soft scrubbed wood table from me.
    “You were saying,” I began, “that you’ve had a series of break-ins and small thefts.”
    “Some food and a bit of milk from time to time. Usually stale things, a heel of bread and a knob of dry cheese. Some wool stockings from the darning basket, two old blankets I’d intended for the church. And as I said, a couple of needles and a spool of black thread from the sewing case.” She nod ded at the neat piece of wooden joinery with the padded top that sat in front of her chair by the fire, and I had to agree, no cat could have worked its latch.
    “Alcohol?”
    “Never. And never have I missed any of the household money I keep in the tea caddy or anything of value. Mrs Prinnings down the road claims she lost a ring to the thief, but she’s terribly absent-minded, she is.”
    “How is he getting in?”
    “I think he must have a key.” Seeing my expression, she hastened to explain. “There’s always one on the hook at the back door, and one day last week when Will needed it, I couldn’t find it. I thought he maybe borrowed it earlier and forgot to return it, that’s happened before, but it could have been the thief. And I admit I’m not always good at locking up all the windows at night. Which is probably how he got in in the first place.”
    “So change the locks.”
    “The thing is, Mary, I can’t help but feel it’s some poor soul who is in need, and although I certainly don’t want him to waltz in and out, I do want to know who it is so that I know what to do. Do you follow me?”
    I did, actually. There were a handful of ex-soldiers living around the fringes of Oxford, so badly shell-shocked as to be incapable of ordinary social intercourse, who slept rough and survived by what wits were left them. Tragic figures, and one would not wish to be responsible for their starvation.
    “How many people in the area have been broken into?”
    “Pretty near everyone when it first started, the end of Sep tember. Since then those who have locks use them. The others seem to think it’s fairies or absent-mindedness.”
    “Fairies?”
    “The little people are a curious lot,” she said. I looked closely to be sure that she was joking, but I couldn’t tell.
    Some invisible signal made her rise and go to the oven, and sure enough, the cakes were perfect and golden brown. We ate them with fresh butter and drank tea (Mrs Hudson carried a tray upstairs, and returned without comment but with wa tering eyes) and then turned our combined intellects to the problem of photographing intruders.
    I returned the next morning,