Sherlock Holmes Housekeeper Novels & Stories

"At least make it believable. This maid has been mooching off our family for months, and now she's broken into my estate." Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Your estate? And who's your mother?" "My mother is Alice Hayes!" Lucas paused — then gave her a thin, contemptuous smile. "Alice?" "Isn't that the boss's housekeeper?"

"One minute." I found a robe in the closet. Silk. Black. His, probably. It drowns me. I belt it tight and walk into the living room. The housekeeper is a woman in her fifties with gray hair pulled back in a neat bun. She holds a bucket and a mop, and she greets me with the practiced blankness of someone who has witnessed everything and learned not to flinch. "Good morning. I'll start in the kitchen." "Okay." She hesitates. Her eyes drop to my throat, to the mark on my collarbone. Then they jump away. "There's breakfast in the refrigerator. Mr. Croft arranged it before he left this morning."

Back at home, it was me or Harmony who did the house chore. "Uhm...Miss...there is no need-", I began too embarrassed by such a thing but she interrupted me, "I am the housekeeper of this manor m'lady. My name is Beth Jones, I am responsible for cleaning the Master's chamber", her monotonous voice had an edge to it and her eyes did not even attempt to conceal the disapproval.

The realization that I was not alone after all resonated within me and I've been conscious of that fact and I like that. It made me feel at peace. But then, whoever the mole in my house is, must leave today. Dropping my bag on the couch, I rang for the bell that was supposed to call for them. Soon enough, they started coming in. And there were about five of them. “Good evening, Miss. Is there a reason why you have called us all here at this time?” The housekeeper, who was a little older, asked. The woman looked strict. She never took rubbish or sucked up to anyone in this house since I joined. Her facial features almost looked like that of maleficent. And from what I know, she's been working

She asked in return. “Ah, not that much,” I answered truthfully. She chuckled as she shook her head. “His and Dr. Watson’s address was 221b Baker Street,” she said and my mouth formed an ‘o’ as I understood the reference. Her flat’s address when she took the second one on the second floor is 2-21b, similar to that of the famous London detective. The elevator opened and she led the way. We stopped in front of a door with a number two. She took her key out but before she put it in the keyhole, she paused.

"Damage control." A soft knock interrupted my eavesdropping. "Mrs. Savage? May I come in?" An older woman entered—gray-haired, stern-faced, wearing the kind of crisp uniform that suggested long service to wealthy families. She carried a breakfast tray and moved with the efficient grace of someone accustomed to invisible service. "I'm Mrs. Henderson, the head housekeeper. I hope you slept well. Dr. Chen said you might be groggy when you wake up." "Where am I?" I asked, though part of me already knew. The ocean view, the old-money elegance, the isolation, this had to be the Hamptons estate Wakes had mentioned once or twice over the years.

I pause, and run my fingers through my hair to tidy it before slipping into a simple jacket and head to the door. My fluffy slippers make soft shuffling sounds against the floor as I approach the door. Opening it, I find a kindly–faced woman standing there, dressed in a simple floral boubou. “Hello, Miss White,” she greets with a bow and warm smile. “I’m your new housekeeper , ma'am. I am employed to cook, clean, wash, do your laundry… just make things easier for you.” The woman explains. I blink in surprise, my wolf instantly alert. Allister never mentioned hiring anyone.

The number was unfamiliar, an Evercrest code, but not saved to my contacts. “Who’s calling?” Elijah asked. “I’m not sure.” I swiped to answer. “Hello?” A female voice spoke on the other end, rushed and trembling. “Madam, this is Mrs. Longman, Mr. Rothchild’s housekeeper.” My heart stuttered. “Mrs. Longman?”

Don’t get lost. By the time she went downstairs, the house was quiet except for faint clattering sounds from the kitchen. She followed them. Mrs. Helen, the older housekeeper, was struggling to reach the top shelf to get a jar of honey. Camilla smiled faintly and walked over. “Let me help,” she said softly, grabbing it with ease and setting it on the counter. The woman chuckled. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself, madam. That’s what we are here for.” Camilla shook her head. “You make this place feel like home. The least I can do is help.”